Sidelined
by mouse8
Summary: An undercover operation goes badly wrong, leaving both Peter and Neal in precarious positions. Final chapter up!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin and USA television, and is merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: T

Summary: An undercover operation goes badly wrong, leaving both Peter and Neal in precarious positions.

Author's notes: The story is completely written, but not yet betaed. I will post every few days as fast as I, or my wonderful beta, Susan, can insert all the missing commas.

Since this has taken me more than a year to write, this is something of an early Season 3 fic. That said, there are only fairly vague spoilers to Season 3.

Sidelined Chapter 1

Neal hated to say, 'I told you so.' Actually, on second thoughts, that wasn't even remotely true. The self-styled omniscient FBI brass were wrong, and even on a bad day, he'd have innocently rubbed a few noses in that fact. It wasn't the fact that this was the suckiest day that ever sucked swamp water that held him back now. He simply had no breath left for such diversions as verbal one-up-manship. Of course, that didn't stop him from mentally devising some Mozzie-assisted retaliatory scenarios. His first instinct was to empty their bank accounts, but Peter might have to arrest him for that. Instead, Hughes might turn blue in the shower like an overgrown, lugubrious smurf and Bancroft might find a lacy bra under his pillow that he would have a hard time explaining to his wife. Peter would only frown at that. This plotting was, however, predicated on the assumption that Neal would be around to perpetrate such pranks, and that Peter would survive to frown on them. Both assumptions looked highly dubious at the moment, so maybe he'd have to rely on Mozzie to take the initiative by himself.

Next to him, Peter stumbled, dragging Neal down with him, so he smacked his knee hard against the freezing pavement. The sharp crack temporarily stole what little breath he had left, as a nauseating jolt of pain slammed into him a split-second after impact. Fear was as paralysing as the pain. They couldn't afford this frantic three-legged race of theirs to become a two-legged race, with one limb apiece, nor could they afford a delay. Their pursuers were already too close for comfort. Neal ached with the need to check his partner's injuries but, for now, he had to concentrate on keeping them both alive, so he ignored the harsh gasps beside him in favor of listening for indications of pursuit. The sound of nearby angry shouting provoked an urgent flight response.

"Come on, we have to go." Puffs of vapor billowed out into the cold air in accompaniment to his words. He looped Peter's arm more firmly around his shoulder and heaved upright, but Peter's contributing effort was lukewarm at best. Neal failed to compensate for his partner's greater weight, and smacked back down against the concrete - gravity 2 Neal's knee 0. "Peter, they're coming, we have to move, now!" he hissed.

Peter lifted his head enough for the younger man to see that his face was twisted in agony, his pallor enhanced by the sheen of sweat that covered his skin. At some point, he'd bitten through his lip and the blood smeared on his face completed a ghoulish appearance.

"Neal...just get out of here," Peter gritted out flatly.

"No." Neal's voice was completely steady and uncompromising.

"Neal, you need to..."

"Save your breath," Neal interrupted harshly. "You're going to need it for running...or hobbling...or hopping. I'll carry you if I have to. One, two, three!"

This time, he successfully got them both to their feet, a generous quantity of adrenaline countering the argument that Peter was just too damn big to lug around like a sack of potatoes.

He peered around a corner of a rusty red shipping container to try to calculate a path through the multi-colored adjacent containers that would afford their pursuers the least line of sight from a distance. In places, the shipping containers were stacked four high, affording good coverage from the security cameras that must be around.

This container terminal was a great place for a game of hide and seek, but it was not without its hazards. At times, the metal boxes were placed too close together for Neal to squeeze his lithe body between them, never mind drag Peter through the gap as well. There were also vast wastelands with no shelter whatsoever - not an appealing prospect when their opponents were armed with submachine guns, and Neal doubted if he could even summon a spit ball to throw at them.

Under other circumstances, the sheer size of the storage facility would favor them. There was plenty of acreage to shake off pursuers, but since every single step was an agonising ordeal for Peter, a protracted chase was not only impractical, it was cruel.

Neal neatly avoided a patch of black ice and continued round another corner, passing into the shadow of a container tower. With each step, Neal felt panic claw its way up from inside. Peter's condition was clearly deteriorating rapidly. The little hitches in his breath had turned to hoarse gasps, and Neal was taking more of his weight with each yard of territory covered. What had started as an occasional tremor had intensified to continuous full-body shivering that seemed to reverberate through the agent into Neal, making him feel as if he were about to fly apart at any moment. He could feel his friend's pain through each flex of his ribcage against his own and it sent a wave of ice-cold fear washing through him, coalescing into a rigid, jagged lump somewhere in his gut.

He needed to find a place for them to go to ground, a safe place where Peter could rest and Neal could properly assess his partner's injuries. Luckily, there were thousands of potential bolt holes. This wasn't Port Authority; it was a storage facility, and most of the containers were empty, therefore unlocked. He just needed to find one that met his specifications. A large majority of the boxes were close to airtight with no light reaching inside. He required one with ventilation shafts allowing not only air but some light into the inner recesses.

Sweat and adrenaline spiked as he started to round another corner just in time to spot the back of one of their trackers as he stalked past on a parallel course, disappearing behind a container while Neal froze, Peter swaying drunkenly beside him. He immediately chose a different vector and staggered on, his own lungs now beginning to burn. The freezing air hit his throat with each breath, making his eyes water and creating the urge to cough. He continued for a few more yards before spotting a gray Maersk box with no lock and the gill-like vents near the top corners.

He propped Peter up against its metal side. "You think you can stay vertical for thirty seconds without me?" he asked urgently.

He received the sparest nod of assent, Peter reserving all his energy for the task just set him. Neal still hesitated before removing his hands, hovering within catching range, since he still half-expected the injured man to crumple in a heap as soon as his support was withdrawn. It was only when he saw taut skin on white knuckles holding onto a bar and the grim determination in his friend's eyes that he felt confident enough to let go and concentrate on getting the container open.

He slid the bolts back as smoothly and silently as it was possible to scrape one piece of metal past another, then pulled open one door, relieved to find the hinges well oiled. Peter was still standing where he left him, balanced shakily on one foot, clearly relying on his handholds to keep him upright. Cold fingers of dread scratched down Neal's back as he took in his partner's appearance. The blood on his chin and upper lip was a stark contrast to his pale complexion. In fact, Peter had moved past pallor to a translucent gray that Neal hadn't seen since...since Peter had died after drinking the poisoned Armagnac. That comparison did nothing to ease Neal's emotional turmoil.

Peter was still alert enough to greet Neal with an expression of desperate relief. Once more, the conman slung Peter's arm over his shoulders and braced himself to take the weight. He had started to move when he noticed that Peter hadn't released his death grip on the bar, so he tugged at that hand gently. "I've got you; you need to let go now," he murmured encouragingly.

He could feel the agony of the renewed movement in every step Peter took, every line of the agent's body taut with suppressed pain as they made their way into the metal box.

Neal was disappointed to find that the container was completely empty. It would have been nice to have at least something in there to offer further concealment even if the safety offered was more illusion than reality. It would have been nicer still to find one that offered blankets, a first-aid kit, and maybe a few units of blood, but evidently this wasn't his lucky day.

They'd have to accept what they had, because there would be no opportunity to search for a better shelter. Peter's legs were already beginning to buckle under the strain, and once they were inside the metal box, they gave out, and he folded up like a house of cards constructed by uncertain and wavering hands. Despite expecting the collapse, Neal barely had time to adjust his grip to lower Peter to the floor in a controlled descent instead of allowing him to drop.

Neal wanted to collapse down beside his friend; his legs were aching and burning like he'd been running for miles. Instead, he patted Peter awkwardly on the shoulder and returned to the door. He couldn't bolt it from the inside, but he carefully pulled it shut so that, at first glance, it would pass for locked.

The air vents didn't let in too much light, so, for now, Peter was just a shadow in the darkness, but his pained gasps for breath sounded loud in the enclosed space. Neal dropped on his good knee beside his partner, the metal cold beneath him. Outside the chill of the air was offset slightly by the weak, but persevering, sun and by the exertion the men were expending. Now, he had no idea if the tremors that were vibrating through Peter were the result of shock, bloodloss, exhaustion or just plain cold - probably a combination of all four.

He wanted to ask how Peter was doing, but it was a stupid question, and he wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answer. "I need to take this off," he warned the other man.

There had been no time for proper first aid when Peter was shot. Neal had whipped off his tie to use as a tourniquet, but he knew how dangerous that was for more than a short-term treatment, so now they needed to use direct pressure to try to control the bleeding.

Before he could start loosening the tie, Peter caught hold of his arm, fastening on with a firm grip. "Neal, you can't keep dodging this issue. You know you've got to leave me here and go for help." The strong speech was spoiled by being interspersed with short intakes of breath, harsh and reedy.

Neal tried to free his arm, but he didn't want to jostle Peter's leg in his efforts, so he desisted. "You're just being lazy. Trying to make me do all the work," he accused lightly.

Peter allowed his head to loll back and rest against the frigid metal. "I have a hole in my leg, for crying out loud. I think that should disqualify me from any such criticisms."

"That's no excuse for slacking off." Peter's grip finally relaxed enough for Neal to extract his wrist. "Look, I'm not going to leave you. I've told you, I'll carry you if I have to. Now shut up, I'm trying to concentrate."

"You don't get to tell me to shut up." The bite behind the words was caused by pain, not affront, and Neal recognised that.

"Could you pretty please be quiet. I'm trying to concentrate on saving your life." Neal amended his request.

It wasn't any form of obedience that kept Peter from responding. The vicious bite of returning blood to his wounded limb meant that the only sound that came out of his mouth was a strangled groan. Neal tried to keep his hands from shaking and inflicting more pain as he examined the injury as well as he could in the dim light.

The bullet had gone straight through Peter's thigh, and he hoped it had missed the bone altogether. However, it had ripped through a lot of muscle on its destructive path, and Neal knew it would take several months and a lot of physical therapy before Peter recovered full use of his limb.

"So, you know you've bought yourself a whole heap of desk time," he said lightly, taking off his jacket since it was the only thing they had to use as bandages. He thought June would forgive its destruction.

This time, the groan was unrestrained. "Paperwork." After a pause, Peter added, "I probably don't have to worry about that. El is going to kill me."

Neal ignored that as the exaggeration it was. He bunched up the jacket, and after meeting his friend's eyes and receiving a nod of permission, he pushed down steadily on the wound. Peter's hands came up involuntarily to push him away, but at the last minute, he gripped his own leg just above the bullet wound, squeezing tightly. He screwed his eyes shut and willed the pain to recede before he started screaming.

The only sound that escaped was a choked groan, but it still ripped through Neal's nerves like a jolt from a cattle prod, and he had to fight the instinct to draw his hands away, hating the fact the he was causing his friend more pain.

Neal's throat constricted painfully, but he kept working even as Peter's face turned impossibly paler. "Hold this and press it down as firmly as you can." Neal worked to keep his tone businesslike, its terseness covering his concern. As he tied the sleeve round the improvised pressure pad, he added, "Maybe you'll think twice next time before stepping between me and a bullet."

There was an appreciable pause before Peter answered, his mind clearly not working as fast as it normally did. "Don't confuse my ability not to run as fast as you with altruism. I was only behind you because I'm that much slower."

"Don't confuse deprecation with truth," Neal retorted drily.

Peter huffed a short laugh, tension preventing it from sounding at all humourous. "If that was a thank you, it got lost in translation."

"Peter!" Neal had to say something, anything to let Peter know what he was feeling, but the words wouldn't squeeze past the lump in his throat. No one he was used to associating with would do such a thing. Contrary to popular belief, there was no honour among thieves. At best, it was every man for himself; at worst, there was betrayal and treachery. Nobody would step between him and a bullet. Yet his immediate reaction was 'don't ever do that again.' It seemed a little ungrateful, but the thought of Peter dying for him drove a splinter of ice into his heart. "Let me dodge my own bullets," he said thickly. "Not only am I faster, but I'm more agile than you, old man."

"You're welcome." But Peter didn't sound displeased with his response.

There was quiet for a while, and Neal might have thought his friend had lost consciousness if it wasn't for the tension in the muscles under his hands. To his relief, the blood flow had almost stopped, no doubt assisted by the cold. It was the only reason to be thankful for the freezing conditions in which they found themselves.

He tried to use the time to find a way out of their predicament, but there was nothing in his brain except a stubborn pinball of thought that ricocheted around, hitting blinking lights as it passed and announcing, "I'm not leaving Peter." His original idea had been simple - make it to the perimeter, get over the wire fence and run. But even if they got to the fence at their current slow pace, it would almost certainly be guarded now. Trying to get over would be tantamount to offering themselves up as target practice.

He was Neal Caffrey, the master of improvisation, but he couldn't come up with a workable plan, not with an injured man in tow. They'd been brought into the facility in a locked van, and he had no prior knowledge of the site, so it was hard to strategise with so little information. He'd never wished so much that he was wearing his tracking anklet. He'd got used to having backup, to having Peter stride, strong and confident, to his rescue. But this time, it was up to him to save his partner, and he was terrified he wasn't going to manage it.

"I can smell the smoke from here." Peter's voice was as pale as his face, but Neal's eyes had adjusted to the light, so he could see his friend's strained expression of amusement. "Your mind is going round and round like a hamster on a wheel. It's causing a lot of friction, but ultimately you're going nowhere. Sooner or later you're going to have to face the fact that you're going to have to go for help."

"No, I'm not leaving you."

Peter grabbed his shirt front and yanked him in close. "Listen to me for once in your life. You. Have. No. Choice."

I...no...Peter, I can't," Neal finished desperately. But his voice cracked, and he had to clench his jaw for control.

"I know." The kindness in Peter's voice shut Neal up more completely than a sharp rebuke, the compassion nearly breaking him.

Peter sighed, releasing his hold. "Neal, I've always trusted you with my life. My silver...no, but my life, yes."

"You have silver?" It was a weak effort.

Peter leaned forward again, intense and forceful. "Neal you've got to listen to me. Even if I could walk, I can feel blood squishing in my shoes. I'd leave big bloody footprints that it wouldn't take Daniel Boone to follow."

"I could..." Peter cut him off.

"Yes, I know you'd carry me if you could. I know that, Neal." Peter knew that Neal would indeed carry him till his heart burst. "But it would be slow, and we wouldn't stand a chance. What would we do at the fence? I can't get over it like this."

He was echoing Neal's own thoughts, but Neal didn't want to listen. There had to be another way.

Peter continued talking, his voice quiet and reasonable, but Neal could tell how much effort it was taking to keep it that way. He could see the pain and exhaustion lurking in the shadowed recesses of that insistent gaze. "Neal, the only things we've got to work with here are your speed and your agility. I chased you for a long time - I know how hard it is to catch you. I feel bad asking, because you're the one who's going to be in danger; you're the one who's going to be out there facing guns. I need help, and I know you can do this."

Neal shook his head, but his denial was weakening. "It's too dangerous to leave you here. They'll find you."

"They won't," Peter insisted. "When you leave, you lock the container behind you. It'll be just one of a thousand locked boxes. They can't search them all. You get out, get to a telephone and lead the squad back here. Just don't forget the box number. I might not be awake for a game of Marco Polo." His voice was becoming even more tight and strained, as if it were costing him his very life to keep it steady.

Neal said nothing, still trying to come up with an alternate plan, but the logic was inescapable. "Okay," he said abruptly, almost choking on his agreement.

Peter relaxed slightly, his breathing evening out, although he couldn't control the slight tremble that continually shook his limbs. "Let me guess. It was the prospect of locking me up in here that convinced you."

"I have to admit, it will make a nice role reversal." Neal tried to match Peter's levity, but the older man could practically feel his friend's struggle to control his emotions, like a tangible wave roiling just beneath that cool exterior.

Now the decision had been made, there was no point postponing the inevitable. He had no way to make Peter more comfortable or safer. Neal took one step before his momentum seemed to run out. It was as if an invisible tether still connected him to Peter. It felt too much like desertion. Moreover, this could be the last time they saw each other, and if it was, Neal wanted to say something to express how much Peter had come to mean to him, but in the end, he kept silent, trusting his mentor and friend already knew.

It was Peter who broke the tension-filled silence. "Neal, in case this goes bad, promise me one thing."

Wariness was too ingrained in Neal for him to utter the 'anything' that wanted to escape, but he nodded.

"If this goes south, make sure that El is okay."

Neal wanted to point out the obvious - that without Peter, Elizabeth would not be okay, but instead, he gave the reassurance his friend needed. "I'll take care of her, make sure she's okay. You have my word on that."

Peter also wanted to make Neal promise he'd not revert to a life of crime, but he couldn't do it - it felt strangely like a betrayal, and besides, Neal was Neal. He might not be law-abiding, but Peter felt no inclination to change him at that moment. He would trust to Neal's sense of justice.

It was as good a goodbye as they were going to get, and Neal had the good sense to recognise that. He listened at the door for a minute, then pushed it open stealthily.

Neal Caffrey was a man who didn't look back. It was the cardinal rule of the con artist. Yet somehow, 'don't look back' morphed into 'sneak a peek'. Peter offered him an encouraging smile, but the effort it took could be seen in the white-knuckled grip on his good knee. His eyes were heavy with unspoken concern.

"Be careful, partner."

Neal's customary smirk was sadly awry, but with an oddly formal nod, he slipped out the door. The bolts slid shut with a grate and a final click that sent an icy chill down Peter's spine, emphasising the fact that he was essentially stuck in what could become his coffin. He shook off that unaccustomed morbidity. Under other circumstances, Neal would probably have enjoyed the symbolism of the act, but Peter doubted his young friend had derived any satisfaction from it now. The container felt even emptier, the energy and excitement Neal brought to a room was gone. It was also colder.

Peter slid his hands under his armpits, hugging himself tightly, trying to preserve some heat. His lungs ached with each drawn breath, and his teeth were chattering violently either from the cold or the shock, but when he clenched them together to stop the irritating noise, it seemed to increase the shudders that tore through the rest of his body. However, he persisted, needing to focus his hearing on the sounds outside, hoping for proof that Neal had got away safely, or at least the absence of proof that he hadn't.

A sick burn of helpless frustration rose in his throat, nearly choking him. Sending his young friend out into danger, to face a manhunt from ruthless criminals, grated against every protective instinct he had, but ultimately, he believed in Neal. His partner was unbelievably fast, combining this fleetness of foot with tremendous agility and an almost ghostlike ability at concealment. Unencumbered by Peter, Neal would be in his element, slippery and elusive. At least, so Peter tried to convince himself while his ears strained for news of his friend's progress. Sound had quickly become paramount, the anchor to communication with the outside world.

At first, all he could hear was his own heartbeat, each sluggish pulse echoed by a surging thump of pain in his leg, but after around fifteen minutes, he was startled out of an almost semiconscious state by the noise of indistinct shouting. He froze in place, even breathing suspended, straining to interpret the indistinct sounds outside.

The metal that enclosed him did nothing to disguise the distant popping sound that next broke the silence, and Peter was too familiar with gunfire to mistake it for anything else. He scrabbled at the walls, hauling himself upright, heart kicking violently against his ribs. The pain in his leg faded to insignificance compared to the agony of alarm he suddenly felt for Neal's safety.

He had taken one faltering, torturous step toward the door when the full horror of the situation slammed into him, a tazer jolt that ripped through every system, blasting every cell from within, coiled sparking and spitting around his heart. How could he have been so stupid! Neal had only been thinking of ensuring Peter's safety when he locked the box, and Peter had only been thinking of breaking the stalemate, knowing they would die if they stayed there, and they were equally doomed if they tried to escape together. It had seemed like the only reasonable way out of the dilemma, the only way to convince Neal to leave.

Neither of them had seriously considered the consequences of Neal failing. Peter's goal had been primarily to get Neal out of the danger zone, for his friend to use his amazing skills to get to safety. Then, from that safe position, to bring back help. If Neal were dead, no help would be coming. The bad guys might not find him, but neither would the FBI.

Peter staggered back a step and lost his balance as his weight fell on his injured leg. His back slammed against a wall, and he lost every last scrap of breath in his lungs as he slid downward, his mouth wide open, but no air actually reaching his respiratory system.

His heartbeat was heavy, like the repetitive thud of a judge's gavel before condemning a man to death. He had stopped shivering, and he knew that was a bad sign. The chill had invaded too deep, sending tendrils down even the smallest capillary, but it was the poison of grief that infiltrated deeper and burned more acidly. Peter had accepted the probability that he would die, but he hadn't expected to spend his last hours blaming himself for his best friend's death.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Thank you so much to everyone who has supported this story, especially to those who took the time to review. I love to hear from people and will always reply if I can, so please keep the comments coming! This probably isn't the chapter that everyone wanted, since Peter and Neal are still in limbo. This explains how they got there, but it's my favorite chapter for sheer fun between our boys, so I hope you enjoy!

Sidelined Chapter 2

In the beginning, it hadn't seemed substantially more dangerous than any other undercover assignment. A large and potentially priceless art collection that had been stolen from a middle-eastern magnate the year before was rumoured to have surfaced. Peter was posing as a potential buyer with Neal as his suave consultant, there to substantiate authenticity and value.

Neal had objected on the grounds that the sellers were still an unknown quantity, and he was too well known in the fraudulent art world. He was going in under an unbroken alias, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be recognised, and, thanks largely to Keller, his association with the FBI had become public knowledge in certain criminal circles.

Peter had backed him up, but they had both been overridden by the powers-that-be who were, in turn, being pressured by the state department. The magnate, apparently, had large oil reserves, and any country that had a hand in returning his artwork would be looked upon favourably in the trade of that commodity.

Contact had been made and an invitation issued to meet and view the merchandise. The FBI had solemnly assured them that they would be safe. The area of the meeting would be saturated with agents and surveillance, and they had each been issued a watch that would double as tracker and transmitter. Neal was relieved to see that they were two different brands, although of a similar clunky size. Going into a sting wearing matching jewelry would definitely lead to erroneous assumptions.

It was almost amusing to Neal how easily the art thieves circumvented all these precautions. A sweep of their persons for electronic devices had been expected, and both watches turned off for the duration of the scrutiny. However, the criminals then collected all jewelry and electronics - cellphones, watches, rings, tie pins - citing security concerns and promising to return them later. They were then loaded into one of six identical vans, which all proceeded to leave the warehouse in different directions. If the FBI decided to intercept any of the vehicles, it certainly wasn't the one that transported them.

With one very slightly elevated eyebrow, Neal silently asked his partner if they were now on their own. With a miniscule nod, Peter indicated that they almost certainly were. Neal absently scuffed a toe on the far-from-clean floor of the van, suggesting they should ditch the operation at the first available opportunity, but Peter's hand tapping lightly on an upholstered seat told Neal that they would play it out. There was no suggestion that their cover had actually been blown. It was merely the paranoia of the thieves that had them covering their tracks so thoroughly.

Peter was right that an escape attempt at this point was the more dangerous option. Their two guards, happily oblivious to the communication going on around them, were well armed, if civil. Trying to excuse themselves on the grounds that someone had forgotten a dentist appointment would only cause suspicion and put them in greater danger. They had to play out their hand. Their situation was still not dire. They had access to a computer-generated bank account that would indicate their great wealth and willingness to use it to purchase the art. If they did access it, the transaction would immediately be traced, and their location identified.

When they reached their destination - a warehouse in a shipping container storage yard, they received a second unpleasant shock. This wasn't the viewing and sale to which they had so fondly supposed they had been invited. It was an auction, and they were only one team of bidders among several.

Ironically, it wasn't Neal's cover that was called into question; it was Peter's. One of their rival bidders recognised Peter, not as an FBI agent, but from a previous undercover assignment when he had used another identity. Neal admired Peter's smoothness, as without appreciable hesitation, his partner explained that on that previous occasion he had been using a soubriquet, keeping his true identity secret for fear of blackmail.

Not for the first time, Neal wished he could entice Peter over to the dark side. They made such an incredible team. Peter could improvise and think on his feet faster than anyone he knew, picking up on Neal's cues flawlessly. For a man who was emotionally transparent in his personal life, he could lie masterfully when undercover.

Despite this convincing performance, the seeds of suspicion had been sown, and they were escorted politely, but firmly, to a room in the basement and locked inside while the facts of their cover story were verified.

There were no signs of visual or auditory surveillance devices in the room, but with the improvement of technology, that didn't mean that they weren't being watched. Nothing needed to be said. As blue eyes met brown, the understanding between them was unequivocal. Now was the time to part company with their hosts.

Escapes were Neal's area of expertise, so with a nod, Peter tacitly passed the lead to his partner. That was how they operated, a subtle give and take, their strengths and weaknesses meshing, shoring up their partnership from every angle. For the benefit of potential watchers, Peter relaxed on a ratty sofa while he watched Neal who, under the guise of jittery claustrophobia, moved around, carefully assessing the room for all potential points of egress. It wasn't like there was a lot to assess.

The room was obviously used for maintenance. It wasn't small, but it was full of piles of junk. There was a small boiler in one corner with rusty pipes leading away from it. Abandoned nearby were two engines of uncertain origin, and next to them, as if someone had been tinkering a decade ago, lay some filthy half-broken tools. To complete the trifecta of a workman's space, there were scattered heaps of oily rags that, if joined dot to dot, probably formed some arcane symbol. The only thing that looked like it belonged to this century was a microwave on a rickety wooden table surrounded by coffee-stained mugs.

Given the materials, Peter thought that Neal could probably MacGyver his way out of the situation half-a-dozen times. However, it wasn't the young conman's preferred style. Through the early years of Neal's career, the FBI had been baffled by his ability to appear and then vanish from crime scenes, slipping through their fingers like a wraith, the only evidence of his presence being the concurrent disappearance of some object d'art. In more recent years, Peter had realised that Neal's apparent thaumaturgic disappearances could actually be credited to the young man's superb athleticism and daring. He could jump, climb or swing his way to safety.

With that knowledge, Peter wasn't surprised when Neal's attention focused on a small window high up on the outside wall. It was the only source of natural light, which proved that it was above ground level. However, Peter could only hope that it was larger than it looked from the ground. Neal's lithe figure might be able to squeeze through, but Peter was fairly convinced that he would not be so lucky. He would hate to end his career doing a Winnie-the-Pooh impression, presenting his wedged-in rear-end for their jailers to shoot, or ogle, depending on their inclination.

Despite his reservations, he gave Neal a nod of encouragement when his partner cocked an enquiring eyebrow in the window's direction. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he found himself watching with fascination as, without delay, Neal swung into motion. He ran towards the side wall, his strides fluid and seamless, then leapt up, hitting the bricks at about waist level with the ball of his foot, pushing off, twisting in mid-air and seeming almost to run up the wall under the window, He caught hold of the slight ledge underneath and pulled himself up, still hanging by his fingertips, to examine the frame and lock. After a minute, he kicked off and dropped down, knees absorbing the impact as if he'd merely stepped off the bottom stair.

Peter surreptitiously checked with a finger to make sure his jaw hadn't actually dropped. "Okay, Jackie Chan, what's the verdict?"

"Piece of cake. However, in order to expedite the process, I'll need the use of both hands." His eyes teasingly raked Peter up and down. "Think you can handle hoisting me up there and keeping me supported while I do that?"

"Piece of cake," Peter parroted nonchalantly, wondering how that was supposed to work.

Both men had independently come to the conclusion that there was no surveillance on the room. Their imprisonment had been unpremeditated, and the choice of the room dictated solely by its ability to be securely bolted from the outside. This fortunate state of affairs was likely to be very temporary, so there was a tacit agreement between them that speed was essential.

Neal maneuvered Peter into place and showed him how to interlace his fingers. "I'll take a short run, place one foot here, then the second one in your hands," he instructed. "Heave upwards in this direction, just as my foot arrives."

Any doubts of the efficacy of this maneuver were removed when Neal went flying over his head with what seemed like minimal effort on his part. However, his opinion concerning apparent weightlessness underwent an abrupt transformation as Neal shifted his weight from his own hands to stand firmly on Peter's shoulders. He might look slight, but his muscular frame made that deceptive.

"Neal, you've been eating too many of El's canapés," he complained, his partner's shoes uncomfortably grating against bone.

"Yet apparently they do less damage than deviled ham. Stop moving, you're wobbling."

"Well, excuse me if I'm not accustomed to being used as a step ladder," Peter grumbled, holding himself as steady as possible, grasping Neal's calf with one hand to give his partner more stability and bracing himself against the wall with the other.

"It's a noble occupation," Neal responded absently, his fingers busy. A moment later he announced, "Got it!"

"Great job." Peter could already feel the downward swoop of temperature in the room, and he tried to glance upwards at the now open window without dislodging his friend. "Okay. Go. Get out of here."

"Nope. Let go, I'm coming down."

Neal's weight disappeared from his shoulders, and as Peter moved away from the wall, his partner swung down beside him again. "What are you doing?" Peter asked, genuinely puzzled, and slightly impatient at the waste of time.

Neal dusted himself down with a quick sweep of his hands. "You need to go first, or do you think you can get up there without my help?"

Peter assessed the distance. He was a good athlete, but it was excellent hand/eye coordination rather than speed or flight that made him so. He shook his head honestly. "Neal, I don't even think I can fit through there. It's probably best if you go and get help."

Neal simply ignored the latter comment. "That's why you need to go first. If you can't, we'll find another way out."

Peter cast around for inspiration. "I could use the table to get up there."

"Too noisy to move, and too likely to turn into a pile of splinters under your weight."

"You think you can do better?" Peter suddenly felt large and clumsy next to his slight partner.

Neal's confidence remained unabated. "You're going to have to trust me. You saw what I did. You do exactly the same thing. Push off my hands as if they were another step and reach for the ledge."

Peter nodded, allowing his doubts to be submerged by his partner's reassurances. He backed away, giving himself the space for a run-up. After one last deep breath, he took four long strides towards Neal, launching himself upwards. Maybe it was just a matter of timing, but he was astounded by how much lift he got from Neal. With no problems, he was hanging off the ledge. "If you do get me fired, maybe we could join the circus as an acrobat act," he puffed.

He eyed the window with trepidation. He'd hoped it would look larger from up close, but if anything, it seemed to have shrunk. "I swear this is smaller than El's handbag, and I've never felt the desire to dive headfirst in there."

"You know, there are people who do this as a form of art." Neal sounded way too calm for someone with two feet still balanced in his hands, even if Peter was holding most of his own weight as if he were performing a perversely-timed version of a pull-up on the ledge.

"What, squeeze through windows? Yes, it's called burglary, and I arrest them for it."

"No, you philistine. It's a form of contortionism, called enterology. People squeeze themselves into small spaces."

Peter tried to wrap his mind round the concept. "These people - would they have the flexibility of a snake but be one twist short of a slinky?"

"Actually, it can be a remarkably useful skill." Peter dipped slightly, his nose almost crashing against the ledge as Neal relaxed his hold, caught up in the conversation. "I remember once when...well, you probably don't want to hear about that."

"Sure I do," Peter reassured him sweetly. "When we get back to the office, I'll pull out the cold case files, and you can tell me which ones I can put down to enterology. Enterology," he grumbled as an afterthought. "It sounds like a stomach upset."

"Peter, it's a nice inoffensive window or the men with guns. Your choice." Neal's voice was a little strained from supporting much of Peter's weight for so long.

"Is there a door three?" Peter didn't want to admit it, but men with guns were looking better all the time. At least he'd be on his feet, facing the enemy and able to fight back, instead of ignominiously stuck in a hole.

"No, there's only one door, and that's the one with the armed men behind it. Now, if you don't hurry up, I'm going to tell Elizabeth that you should go on a diet. You'll never see a dessert again."

"Traitor." El was already annoyingly over concerned with his sugar consumption. "Okay, okay, I'm going. Just don't let me do a Taft here."

"Peter, you're not 330 pounds and this isn't a bathtub."

Peter knew he was procrastinating. "The potential for humiliation is identical. You can be President of the United States, but all the world knows about you is that you got stuck in the bathtub."

Neal's patience was definitely forced. "Forget Taft. Think Clark Kent."

"Now I'm Superman? I like the way you think. Only if I was Superman, I wouldn't bother with the damn window, I'd go straight through the wall."

"Peter, concentrate; I'm going to be a foot shorter at this rate. On the count of three, I'm going to heave upwards, and you pull yourself up and into the space. Aim for the window like Superman flying. Get your head and one shoulder and arm out. That allows you to use some leverage from the other side."

Peter only had time to take a deep breath, realise that expanding his rib cage was the opposite of what he needed, and expel it violently, before the countdown reached three. He heaved himself up instinctively, remembering at the last moment to extend an arm. He slid smoothly through at first, his spare hand guiding his passage, but then he ground to a halt.

The choking constriction around his chest made it almost impossible to breathe, and the sharp edges of the window frame cut brutally into his ribs and right arm, especially where his weight bore down on the bottom rim. He kicked out frantically, instinctively trying to find something to push against to assist his progress. As his foot struck something yielding, he stopped, afraid he'd just kicked Neal in the face.

A strong hand grabbed his ankle. "Peter, relax." Neal's voice was muffled, but the words came through clearly enough. "Tensing up is the worst thing you can do. Breathe out, then push on my hands. Progress might be slow, but you can do it. Keep your body straight and don't muscle through it. Muscle mass is your enemy right now. Just wriggle your hips from side to side."

Peter's face was exposed to the chilly fresh air, already half in freedom, but the claustrophobic sense of captivity was literally inescapable. This might be a different tight situation to those he was used to, but he did know how to set aside panic and follow directions.

It would have been easier if he could find better purchase for his feet, but Neal's pushes were vertical and he needed to move horizontally. Moreover, as he scraped inch by excruciating inch outward, he lost contact with his partner too far below.

He was very aware that Neal was vulnerable, trapped in the room below while Peter blocked the only practical exit, and that knowledge endowed him with an extra incentive to move. Bracing his left hand on the outside wall, below the window, he threw himself from side to side, worming his way painfully forward. "I'll never look at toothpaste the same way again."

Progress became easier once he successfully extricated his chest from the window, and he finally slithered out onto the frozen concrete. After a quick glance around to make sure no one had noticed the wall giving birth to an FBI agent, he knelt back down at the window just in time to watch Neal make another gravity-defying leap to catch the ledge under the window. Peter extended a hand, grabbing hold of Neal's wrist, and it only took Neal one boneless wriggle and he was through.

Every one of the numerous bruises presently forming on Peter's ribs protested the unfairness of that maneuver. "Show off," he muttered, only to receive a sunny, slightly smug, smile in response.

Both of the men stuck close to the wall, having spotted the surveillance camera aimed out over the yard, attached to the corner of the building above their heads. Neal rested a hand restrainingly on Peter's shoulder for a second, telling him without words to stay put while he checked out their options. He sidled along the wall, until directly under the camera, then risked a peak around the corner.

Their escape route had fortunately taken them out the back of the building, if the complex of warehouses could be called a building. Neal's quick glance showed him a hive of activity around the front, trucks being unloaded and contents examined. It was possible that the activity was legitimate, but they couldn't take that chance. He returned to Peter and indicated with a shake of his head that no escape was possible in that direction.

They both looked out over their only remaining route to safety. The square metal peaks of container mountains beckoned them forward, but before they could reach the protective security of their bulk, the two men had to cross the piedmont region, a 200-yard swathe of concrete with not as much as a bicycle to offer concealment.

"Don't run," Neal offered professionally. "It immediately attracts attention."

"So we just..." Peter walked his fingers illustratively.

"We are just two innocent..." Neal looked down at himself in suit and tie, "Well, dockworkers isn't going to work, but two random bystanders going about their business. We walk casually across and lose ourselves among the containers. Let's go, we saunter and we chat."

"I can do that. I can saunter and I can chat." The two strolled away from the wall, but Peter's steps were tense. "Why do I feel like there's a big spotlight on me?"

"You're doing it wrong. Your body language has to say there's nothing to look at over here."

"These aren't the droids you're looking for. Seriously, Obi Wan? You're telling me your secret of concealment is Jedi mind tricks?"

Neal smiled approvingly. "That's better. Now we're sauntering and arguing, and what could be more normal. We're almost half-way there."

The optimism this statement generated was quickly dispelled as a strident shout came from the building they had just left. Peter turned involuntarily to check; his ingrained response was always to investigate, to answer a challenge, whereas Neal merely maintained his pace towards his destination, not reacting by as much as a twitch.

Peter recognised the face of one of their erstwhile guards peering through the window they'd just vacated. It wasn't clear whether he was standing on the table or utilizing Neal's 'step ladder' method, but there was no way he'd fit through the window. However, Peter realised such physical exertion wouldn't necessarily be required when a hand protruded through the opening holding a gun.

"Peter, this is when you run." The FBI agent followed Neal's advice and example, instinctively placing himself between his partner and the threat. It wasn't a conscious decision, a deliberate choice, but the younger man had always brought out his innate protectiveness.

A bullet slammed into a container in front of them with a musical clang, then Peter's leg was hit by what felt like an invisible hammer blow, sending him sprawling, the freezing concrete scraping his palms as he tried to catch himself. There was no pain, so he tried to scramble to his feet, only to have his leg give way once more. A whirling funnel cloud of vertigo seized him, flinging limbs asunder out of his control, spinning his head and ripping away all sense of direction and his ability to focus.

"Peter! Oh God, Peter!" As the world spun about him, Neal's blue eyes, wide with horror and fear, offered an anchor. Neal had come back for him...the idiot. A bullet whanging past them reminded him that this wasn't the time for a lesson in personal survival techniques or a lecture on a CI's responsibility to stay out of the line of fire.

Without pausing for any type of discussion, Neal grabbed him under the armpits, dragging him unceremoniously back towards the secure shelter of the containers. Bullets might not follow them around the corners, but it wouldn't be long before some sort of pursuit did. Peter was about to make the suggestion that, since haste was imperative, Neal needed to leave him, but he was distracted by the sight of his partner hurriedly stripping off his beloved tie. Kneeling beside him, Neal looped the tie around Peter's upper thigh, pulling it viciously tight before knotting it.

Up until this point, Peter's pain receptors seemed to have been on sabbatical, gloriously absent in their numbness, but this simple act of constriction re-awoke them, and pain soared up, coursing through him like water surging up a blowhole. He bit back the cry that reared up alongside it, seizing his lip between his teeth as if trying to shake it into submission.

Neal wasted no time on sympathy, slipping his arm around the other man's waist, pulling Peter's arm around his own shoulders and hauling his partner upright. Peter was able to give some assistance by levering himself up, although pain fissured through him at the movement. It increased exponentially as they staggered on, so Peter was forced to concentrate solely on staying upright, trusting his partner to not only support most of his weight, but also to guide them in the most advantageous direction.

Neal was more than conscious of the responsibility resting on his shoulders. He tightened his grip, pulling Peter closer to make it easier to act as his impromptu crutch.

A glance behind had shown him Peter's efforts to shield him from the gunfire. He remembered asking Peter once if the agent 'had his back,' and he'd been satisfied with the affirmative answer. He hadn't expected that it would extend to such sacrificial lengths. It created a medley of emotions that he didn't have the leisure to explore even if he wanted to.

He thought back to Copenhagen and leaving an injured Alex there because it was 'who they were'. It wasn't who he was any more. Peter had seen to that. He might not buy in to the absolute authority of the law, but he'd learnt a lot about teamwork, loyalty and trust from the man stumbling beside him.

He promised himself that he wouldn't leave Peter behind. He would do whatever was necessary to save him.


	3. Chapter 3

Sidelined Ch 3

When Neal had sworn to himself that he wouldn't leave Peter behind and that he'd do anything necessary to save his partner, he hadn't bargained on the two elements of that promise being incompatible. What was he supposed to do when one imperative was trumped by the other and tore apart his sense of integrity in the process? Despite Peter's joke, Neal had bolted the container with the greatest reluctance - a sense of irrevocability, of sealing Peter's fate, had accompanied the action. He recognised the inevitability of the choice; Peter's logic had been impeccable, but it could backfire in so many ways.

Despite their precautions, there was a good possibility that Peter would be found. With surveillance cameras at their disposal, their pursuers could certainly narrow down the area in which they needed to search. Just as worrying was the possibility that Peter's condition would continue to deteriorate – blood loss and shock, with no one there to perform elementary first-aid, could prove fatal. The most dangerous factor - the concern that turned Neal's footsteps to lead, hesitancy dogging every movement - was the cold.

As he crouched in the shadows, clad only in shirtsleeves, the icy wind tore through his one layer of clothing, goosebumps forming like icicles on his skin. Peter might not have to contend with the wind, but neither did he have the slight mitigating warmth of the sun. The chill of the metal would leach inexorably through him, and he was in no condition to do even mild calisthenics to ward it off. Neal had no more clothing to offer in his absence, but if he stayed, his body warmth might prevent hypothermia.

Neal tried to reconcile these fears with his need to get help. His fertile mind sorted through half a dozen different strategies. He played with the idea of doing the unexpected and returning to the warehouse he'd just left. Presumably, most of their manpower would be utilized in hunting their missing prisoners, so it would be a good time for Neal to search for a phone and possibly some blankets or something that offered protection from the bitter cold. Apart from being unexpected, it also offered the benefit of allowing him to return to Peter with all possible haste. Ultimately, he rejected the idea as too dangerous when Peter was relying on him. Besides, there was no guarantee there would be a land line available to call for help.

That plan was also incompatible with his other goal of assuring Peter's safety by drawing the enemy away from him. If Neal could ensure that the gunmen caught sight of him escaping, and he could fool them into believing Peter was ahead of him, the search would be abandoned, and Peter would be safe, at least from the human variable. The potential danger to himself inherent in the plan was offset by the security it offered to his friend.

However, this was a con that required some advanced intelligence on the distribution of the enemy's forces. That information could best be gained from a higher elevation than ground level. Neal elected to climb a stack of three containers that was strategically concealed from possible surveillance in the main building by an even taller tower of metal boxes behind it. Under normal conditions, Neal would have swung up that artificial mound like a monkey up its favourite banana tree, but the already icy conditions had deteriorated with the onset of a light, but schizophrenic, mix of sleet and snow.

The metal of the containers was treacherously slick, and Neal's fingers were numb before he'd even achieved a yard of vertical distance. He struggled for every inch, his grip uncertain and his footholds more a matter of guesswork than certainty, while gravity and the weather conspired to bring him down. Once he'd plastered himself, miserable and shaking, to the roof, the struggle proved to be worthwhile. The storage yard became his chess board. His opponent might have considerably more pieces, but they were playing blind, and Neal, for once, had the run of the board and was able to move freely. He ignored the internal consistency of his own simile that would make him the queen. At least he'd escaped the role of pawn to which Mozzie had once assigned him. Peter was the king, hugely limited in his movements, who must be protected at all costs.

There were still gunmen who were searching randomly through the yard, so it wasn't possible to predict the movements of everyone, nor could he see behind every container, although he could predict the presence of some watchers through the movements of others. He pinpointed the weakest point in their defenses - a stretch of wire fence that they probably thought unscalable, especially with Peter's injuries. It was topped with barbed wire, but it was intended to prevent people from entering the facility, not escaping, so it was angled away from the yard.

His descent was even more uncontrolled than the climb, though each slide at least took him in the right direction. He allowed the last slip to turn into a fall, preferring to spare his bruised, sore fingers the agony of trying to grip, at the expense of his knees.

He moved silently, keeping alert, stopping at the corner of each container to check for activity before he crossed to the shelter of the next metal box. If he hadn't begrudged every moment spent away from Peter, he might have enjoyed this cat and mouse game. Faster and more agile than his opponents, he excelled at such tactics. If the weight of responsibility hadn't borne so heavily upon him, it might have been fun. As it was, his exhibitionist tendencies were curtailed by caution. He couldn't play the Pied Piper of Hamlin until he had his rats lined up exactly how he wanted them.

The flurries of snow had thickened to blizzard proportions, tiny, innocuous specks of ice, individually harmless, but collectively blanketing the area in off-white gloom. Visibility had been cut dramatically, benefiting Neal in a variety of ways. The cameras at the warehouse would be virtually blind. He was also in the fortunate position of being able to assume that any man he met was an enemy, but his pursuers would have to work to verify his identity or risk shooting a colleague. Aiming would also be a more chancy affair. Luck, in the guise of the elements, was finally working for him. But fortune was a fickle mistress, and he had to ensure that the slipperiness of the conditions didn't lead to his downfall.

Neal flexed his fingers almost continually, working to keep the blood moving and the numbness at bay. He readied himself physically and emotionally for action, adrenaline, his drug of choice, churning thickly. Even the smallest bronchial dilated to its maximum, each cell perking up in response to its individual shot of oxygen-rich blood, offering a natural high better than anything even the most creative chemist could offer. Cold became irrelevant, and danger merely a challenge accepted. After a last internal audit of his check list, he slipped around a corner of a container with over-exaggerated furtiveness, letting out a gasp of feigned horror when he encountered the rather overweight gunman crouching on the other side. That worthy's brain had clearly frozen under the dual impact of inactivity and cold, and he merely gaped unattractively at Neal, wiping snowflakes from his eyelashes in an attempt to identify his visitor.

When the expected and desired cry of alarm did not materialise, Neal decided to assist. "Get back, run. They've found us," he shouted mendaciously to an imaginary partner.

With this helpful self-identification of the target to jump-start his dormant brain, the gunman lumbered into delayed reaction. He brought up his gun, but his target inconveniently disappeared in the interim. It wasn't hard to follow his prey's progress, because the fleeing man continued to loudly exhort his unseen companion to move faster. Bellowing his own warnings to his fellow workers, the gunman commenced the chase.

Neal's first objective had been achieved, as the guard blundered after him yelling an alert. He just hoped that everyone would converge on the noise and that there was no brighter-than-usual foot soldier who would anticipate Neal's plan and move in a parallel trajectory to intercept him at the fence. Neal lengthened his stride, switching into high gear, a smooth economy of movement. Sodden clothes clung clammily to his skin, but the wind carried him cooperatively on its whistling path between containers. The route he'd chosen from his earlier vantage point didn't allow his pursuers a clear line of sight unless they were too close for comfort, but that required smooth maneuvering around corners. He jinked like a snipe without losing momentum, gearing himself up for the final dash. There was a ten-yard gap between the final box and the wire fence, a perfect place to be caught by enfilading fire if any of the gunmen beat him to it.

He raced forward, breaking out of cover like a grouse from the heather, extorting his unseen companion to get back. He didn't bother glancing to either side to ascertain if he was indeed alone. The negative answer to that question would be inscribed on a bullet. He braced himself for the leap up the fence, knowing the five seconds it would take him to scale it could be several seconds too long if he'd overestimated his lead over his pursuers. Wire wasn't necessarily as easy to climb as a wall of the same height. It gave under his weight, bowing outwards from the force of his landing before snapping back, instead of offering resistance to aid his ascent, but he rode the undulations like a cowboy on a bronco. He was quickly at the top, but now needed to navigate the barbed wire that sloped away from him. If he had been wearing a jacket, he would have used it as padding, but that garment was currently preventing Peter's blood from draining away, so he couldn't regret its absence.

There was no time to devise an elegant way to climb over that final stretch. He pushed off, using his hands like a pole-vaulter and swinging his body over in a vault that he hoped would carry him over the other side. The lithe twist he executed in the air to bring his feet back under him would have made a cat green with envy. However, like a vaulter, his pivoting point, which happened to be his left arm, trailed behind. If he'd been wearing more clothes, the material might have become irretrievably stuck on the wire, leaving him dangling defenselessly in the air. As it was, the barbs ripped through the thin material of his shirt, scoring deeply into his skin before releasing him to drop soundlessly to the ground, the settling snow seeming to cushion the impact.

Adrenaline temporarily numbed any pain he might be feeling as he sprinted away, spurred to greater speed by a bullet whistling by. The leading gunman, not his overweight friend, had not yet cleared the line of the containers, so Neal won a short reprieve by running along the line of the fence. It was nearly three times as far to available cover, but the disadvantage of distance was outweighed by the advantage of running perpendicular to the path of any bullets. It was much harder to hit a target moving across the line of sight than one simply moving away, especially with the fence and the snow obscuring it. His choice was justified when he reached the shelter of the adjacent building unscathed, despite the enthusiastic hail of gunfire aimed in his general direction.

Neal's pace didn't slacken, although he no longer feared pursuit. He doubted anyone would try his up-and-over maneuver, and any alternate routes to follow him would take too long to be practical. After the fusillade of gunfire, it was likely the art thieves would be concentrating their efforts on cleaning up their operation and vanishing before the police arrived. That was good news for him, and, more importantly, it was good news for Peter.

His breath followed the rhythm of his pounding footsteps, pluming out in misty gouts that were instantly destroyed as he raced through them. The snow seemed to evaporate before he touched it, the heat of his body creating an inviolable tunnel in its flight. He often found the syncopation of thudding feet and interwoven inhalation hypnotic, but it wasn't merely the discomfort of sodden clothes or exhaustion that prevented him from reaching that state and eventually slowed his steps. His goal of finding a telephone to call for help was always foremost in his mind, but there was a complete dearth of functioning or even vandalised booths. It wasn't unexpected, but it was frustrating. His stride slowed to a jog, then faltered to a halt. He spun around on the spot, searching in all directions, hoping to somehow spot an errant booth that he'd missed in the snow. Unsurprisingly, nothing materialised. He bit his lip as he turned again more consideringly, weighing his options.

Continuing to run along blindly was clearly an exercise in futility, and the urgency of Peter's plight had not diminished. He could try accosting the first person he met in the likely hope that they were carrying a cell phone, but even if he did find someone out braving the weather, there was the risk that they might be connected to the art thieves. Even more likely was the probability that they would run screaming in the opposite direction when they saw him. His appearance was immaculate no longer. His clothes were not only soaking wet, but were also filthy and torn in places. Now that he actually looked down at himself, he noticed with detached surprise that what was left of his left sleeve was soaked with blood. As he watched, a rivulet trickled sluggishly down a well-established path, hovered uncertainly on a fingertip then dropped to splash startlingly scarlet against white snow.

_A trail it wouldn't take Daniel Boone to follow_. Peter's words shimmered in his memory, and he looked back, startled, at his footsteps, realising he might not be as safe as he'd imagined. He started moving again, but this time with more purpose. There had to be a building nearby that contained a phone, and locks and bolts wouldn't keep him out.

None of the buildings he was passing seemed to have much potential; they were just warehouses. His steady lope turned back into a run as urgency again impelled him to move faster. Night was falling, and the temperature plummeted to keep it company. The warmth he'd originally generated by running had quickly dissipated, leaving him bitterly chilled, ice crystals forming on his eye lashes, the full-body shivers juddering through him tapering off as numbness weighed down each limb. At least he could move, nurture the germ of warmth with friction and movement. Like a new piece of elastic, his thoughts repeatedly snapped back to Peter lying still and unconscious in what must have essentially become a refrigerator unit. Neal knew little about hypothermia except how quickly it could kill. For the first time, with dawning horror, he realised how stupid he'd been to lock the container. He thought he'd been protecting his partner, but instead, he had probably signed Peter's death warrant. His friend was completely trapped, unable to seek greater warmth and safety if the opportunity presented itself.

Neal dragged in a lungful of the icy air, trying to clear his mind, but fear infiltrated as insidiously and completely as the cold. It crawled restlessly inside him like a multi-pedal bug, spiny and sullen, and bile rose in the back of his throat.

Night cast long shadows over the landscape and the snow, adding to the blanket of non-visibility. It was strange that something so white could add to the effect of complete darkness. A building finally loomed up out of the emptiness; it seemed to be comprised of offices rather than storage. Relief that his search might have reached a successful conclusion sent him racing to the door, precautions not forgotten, but disregarded.

He hammered on the door, even added a yell or two against his better judgment, but there was no response; the door stayed closed, and the windows remained as blank as shuttered eyes. Once, that would have been a good thing in Neal's world. It spoke volumes about how that world had changed that it now engendered panic. However, it didn't stop him. He tried to pull the piece of wire he'd used to open the window in the basement out of his pocket, but fumbled it awkwardly, dropping it from numb fingers into the snow. There was no way he could manage the finesse necessary to pick a lock with such a rudimentary tool when he couldn't even grip it.

For once, subtlety could take a swan dive and disappear behind brute force. Smash and grab might not have been in his repertoire up to this point, but it wasn't a technique that required a lot of practice to master any more than it required feeling in his fingers. He spun around again, this time searching for some loose object, but apparently all the best heavy objects had already been claimed. His gaze was caught by a melted patch in the snow, and he realised there was a drain cover underneath. He hooked fingers into the holes, the edges cutting into his flesh, and yanked it up. It was too heavy to throw in a traditional fashion, so he simply heaved it bodily through the nearest window.

Glass shattered and the wooden frame splintered, everything crashing inwards under the force of the impact with a satisfying smash that should bring anyone in the neighbourhood running. In what was another first, Neal found himself hoping that he had triggered an alarm, and that police sirens would announce the arrival of back-up forces. However, he wasn't about to wait tamely for that occurrence. The window was hanging limply by its hinges, and he slipped through easily without damaging himself further on jagged shards. Despite the large hole acting as ventilation, the warmth of the building settled around him like a caress, but there wasn't any time to appreciate it. He hunted for a light switch around the door and discovered that the room into which he had so unceremoniously crashed appeared to be a waiting room, containing none of the communication apparatus he required. Once a quick perusal had informed him of this fact, he was out into the next area.

A cheap imitation Monet and pastel colours would not be what he would chose for decoration, but the worn cream phone sitting on the desk made it the best reception room he'd visited. A glance at the small, neatly hand-written instructions told him to press nine for an outside line, so he prodded it experimentally. The sweet purr of the dial tone was such a relief that his knees weakened, and he collapsed into the convenient swivel chair, which turned obligingly under his weight. His fingers felt swollen to twice their normal size, uncooperative and clumsy as he pushed the digits for the White Collar unit. He briefly thought about dialing 911, but as much as he wanted an ambulance as soon as possible, it would require too much explanation, and he didn't want the medics walking into a gun battle.

The temperature in the office couldn't have been higher than the 50s, but it seemed positively balmy. Paradoxically, it started Neal shivering again as he waited for a response to his call. Surely calls to the FBI were answered more expeditiously than this. Distractedly, he stared at the slices on his forearm, watching drops of blood reverse direction and ooze down like red tears towards his elbow where it rested on the desk.

"White Collar unit. Special Agent Barrigan speaking." Diana sounded distracted, and he could picture her, phone tucked between shoulder and ear as she multitasked, working a search on the computer while answering the call. The whole unit was almost certainly preoccupied by his and Peter's disappearance.

"Diana, it's Neal. Put a trace on this call now."

"Neal!" She certainly didn't sound distracted now. The quality of the line changed, and he guessed he'd been put on speakerphone. "Where are you? Where's Peter?"

"I don't know where I am exactly; that's why you need to trace the call. Peter's been..." His throat closed with an audible click, strangling the rest of the sentence before he could utter it. He tried to swallow down the constriction, the words feeling more like a confession of personal failure than a simple statement of fact. He successfully worked them out, but they broke into shards as they wormed past the blockage, coming out strangled and sharp. "Peter's been shot."

He barreled past the hum of reaction, shock and concern the announcement engendered. "Bring an ambulance."

Diana's sharp query of, "How bad," was overridden by Hughes' more strident tones. "Caffrey, we have your position. What's the situation?"

Neal had never appreciated the senior agent's unflappable steadiness more, and he anchored himself to that stability to pull his thoughts together. "Peter's cover was blown," he stated baldly. "We escaped under fire. He was shot in the leg and couldn't go any further, so I found a safe place for him while I went to call for help. Follow the road from my location southwest 'til you get to the water. You'll find a large terminus storage yard. Peter is in a gray Maersk container labeled M334DM. Proceed with caution. There were at least 12 armed men, probably more, though they may have moved off."

"Are you in any danger at your present location?" Hughes' tone was still businesslike, but it was warmed by a touch of approval at the succinctness of the report.

Neal looked around involuntarily, but the peeling and stained walls offered no threat except to his sense of aesthetics. "No, Sir."

"Then stay where you are. I'll send a team to pick you up, but this blizzard is going to slow our arrival."

"I understand, but hurry. Peter's lost a lot of blood, and this cold could prove deadly." Neal disconnected without announcing that he had no intention of following those orders. Peter needed immediate assistance, and he was the nearest person able to provide it. No order would prevent him from returning, but it would merely delay the unit if he were to argue to that effect. It was simpler to apologise after the fact.

He paused only to ransack the offices for useful items. In a small staff kitchen, there was a rudimentary first-aid kit from which he grabbed a roll of bandages. He also found a red rain jacket abandoned in a janitor's closet. It offended every sartorial sense but offered some protection from the environment. The last thing he took was a threadbare throw that had been slung over the back of an equally decrepit sofa in the staffroom.

The journey back to the terminal yard seemed to take much longer than his outward journey. He started wondering if he'd missed a turn that hadn't been apparent in the snow. The weather hadn't improved to any discernible degree, but it wasn't yet the thick, wet type of snow that settled quickly. There was still less than an inch on the ground. The light crystalline flakes were being driven almost horizontally by a brutal wind.

He couldn't reenter the yard the same way he left, since the angle of the barbed wire now worked against him, so he used the topography of the area he'd memorized from his vantage point on the tower of containers to figure out a point of entry. The front gate would presumably still be guarded - legitimately or not, so he needed something more surreptitious.

He ran lightly along the perimeter, trying to see if there were signs of activity through the impenetrable veil of snow. Everything seemed deathly quiet. As the fence neared the water, it was replaced by a razor-wire topped wall which itself morphed into the outer wall of a building whose forbidding aspect would have warmed the heart of any self-respecting prison guard. It was a stretch of the boundary that was closely watched by CCTV, but, with one exception that could easily be avoided, all the cameras were facing into the wind, and the snow blowing into the lenses would almost certainly make surveillance impossible.

Old stone walls were always scaleable, having convenient ledges and cracks for handholds. A running jump got him half-way up, and from there, he scuttled over, although admittedly more like Spiderman's disgraced second-cousin than the superhero himself. He was soon threading his way past the containers. The yard was disguised in a shroud of white, the former bright colors of the containers lost in the snow. The bright glare of the floodlights used to illuminate the yard were refracted by the millions of tiny snowflakes, then split again before being absorbed to cast a lurid orange glow over the whole area.

Neal's excellent sense of direction led him unerringly back towards Peter. His fear for his partner's life was like an abscess which became increasingly painful as he worried at it constantly. Lulled by the eerie lifelessness around him and focused exclusively on finding his way to Peter, he forgot his own cardinal rules and precautions. He slipped around a corner to run, almost literally, headfirst into a gun. He would have liked to have seen the arm holding it trembling, even if it were only a reflection of the temperature rather than nerves, but it was held rock steady.

He raised his hands instinctively, more to indicate harmlessness than surrender, but his body tensed for flight.

"Don't run. I'll drop you before you take your second step," the holder of the gun growled in warning.

To emphasise the point, a second gunman approached from behind, boxing him in. It was too dark to see his expression, but there was grim satisfaction in his voice.

"Gotcha!"


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Thank you so much to everyone who is reading the story and taking the time to let me know what they are enjoying about it. It's really appreciated. This is a chapter I never thought I'd write. After Suspect, several people wrote and asked for a missing chapter - the scene where Peter was rescued. I never wrote it, but this was written instead. Strangely enough, it doesn't really have Peter or Neal in it, although they are completely central to everything that occurs. Lastly, please remember this was written during the first half of season three. In a minor way, this scene reflects the emotions and suspicions of that time.

Sidelined Ch 4

Reese Hughes wasn't by nature a patient man, but over the years, he had learned a strained approximation for his job. The weather-enforced delay at reaching the container yard had been deeply frustrating, not only to him but to his whole team, and he could see that tension reflected in their body language. Peter Burke was not only highly respected in the department, he was also well-liked. His sharp intelligence and unparalleled success might have engendered jealousy, but instead, his evenhanded leadership inspired everyone in the department to work harder. The fact that this fair-mindedness apparently extended to one conman had generated some detractors outside their immediate unit, but Neal Caffrey had wormed, or at least charmed, his way into the affections of the White Collar agents, and none of them thought less of their boss because he called the young CI his partner.

Burke's team had been alarmed by the pair's initial disappearance and had worked diligently to locate them, but throughout the hours of silence, they had maintained a stubborn faith that their boss and their conman would eventually return unharmed. The news that Peter had been shot had hit the unit hard. Peter had always seemed indomitable, so now they were worried and angry, but Hughes trusted their professionalism. Although everybody wanted to go and search for their missing team members, the first order of business was to secure the location.

There had been no guard at the entrance. He had either deserted his post due to the weather or had fled at the sound of the sirens. The whole area seemed abandoned. There were no people on the grounds, no trucks in front of the warehouse, just a field of containers. Their focus of concern was now the main complex of buildings in the center of the yard. The SWAT team moved in first, the White Collar unit following closely in the path that was cleared. It was the work of minutes to establish that this location, too, was deserted.

Hughes regarded the ransacked office dispassionately. It showed all the signs of being vacated hastily. There were drawers upended, papers discarded on the floor, and the acrid smell of smoke in the air from where something had been burnt in the trash can.

"Sir," Diana was at his elbow, anxiety clear in her eyes, although she attempted to keep her expression impassive. "The area has been secured, and no one's here. We need to start looking for Agent Burke."

Hughes agreed that the delay had been long enough. "Make sure everyone has the identification number for the container and organise a coherent search pattern." He paused at the entrance to the warehouse and stared in disgust at the obscuring snow and the seemingly endless expanse of metal boxes. "This could take hours. Get Caffrey back on the phone, or better yet, get him here. The team should have reached his position by now."

The search for Peter now took precedence over all other projects, and Hughes committed all his manpower to the task, even including himself on a team. It was slow, frustrating work. Each container had to be visually inspected at close range; often, snow had to be brushed off cold metal before the identification number could be seen and the container crossed off the list of possibilities.

Snow deadened every sound except the whistling of wind through metal canyons. Hughes' fingers tingled with cold even through the protective confines of his gloves, and his unprotected nose and cheeks seem to have bypassed pain and headed straight for numb. Now he'd experienced the bitter conditions personally, his anxiety for his missing agent was mounting exponentially.

"Sir." Jones didn't look any warmer than he did, although the younger agent was huddled in a thick coat.

Hughes turned towards him eagerly. "Have you found Peter?"

"No, Sir." The younger agent swiped miserably at some snow melting off his nose. "And we can't find Neal, either."

"What!" Hughes didn't know whether to be concerned or angry and settled on frustrated at the delay in finding Peter's location.

"Blake and Williams went to the address we'd traced the phone call from. They found evidence of Neal's break-in, but there was no other sign of him there."

Hughes frown deepened, although most of his expression was hidden under his hood. "Damn it, we need him here to expedite this process. Maybe he's on his way back here. Tell Blake and Williams to work their way down here, keeping an eye out for him."

Further conversation was interrupted by the cry of, "I've found it!"

Both men turned simultaneously and started running towards the source of the cry, drawn like iron shavings to a magnet. They weren't the only ones, as all agents within earshot converged on the shout. Hughes grabbed one of his junior agents unfortunate enough to stumble into his path.

"Get the medics up here... and somebody find me Caffrey!"

Diana was the only one there not hunched up against the cold; it was as if the bitter temperature was irrelevant to her. She was the first to swing to the back of the container, eager to get the doors open.

"It's locked!" she said with shocked incomprehension, then with mounting anger, "He locked him in. Peter's been trapped in there all this time."

It was an unthinking reaction, born of a long day worrying about the boss she valued as mentor, role model and friend. It gave no consideration to changing conditions. The yard felt so starkly desolate, it was hard to imagine the violent gun battle that had occurred earlier. Unfortunately, everyone was too preoccupied with their concern for Peter and the misery of the weather to challenge this interpretation of circumstances.

Diana rotated the top of the locking mechanism, then pulled the door lever towards her. This allowed the right door to be released, and eager hands yanked it open. Diana was the first inside, though Hughes was close behind. The empty truck appeared vast inside, making it seem that the body curled up in a fetal position was too small to be Peter. Although there was never really any doubt in the matter, identification was also delayed because Peter had tied some cloth around his head to prevent heat loss rising from that direction.

Diana's footsteps echoed in the enclosed space as she approached the fallen figure almost reverently, dropping to her knees beside him.

"Don't move him," Hughes directed sharply, remembering that it was bad to jostle hypothermia victims, even if the reason was lost to him.

Diana stripped off a glove, discarding it next to the blood stain on the floor. She extended a small, tremulous hand towards her mentor's neck.

The scene was sparse, derelict, but small, irrelevant details etched themselves into Hughes' memory - Diana's shadow shivering by flashlight, the wear on the tread of Peter's left shoe, the sole turned mutely up towards him - but most of all, he noticed the repeated plume of Diana's condensed breath, and the matching fog of his own, that was conspicuously absent in front of Peter's face. He braced himself for the news before Diana spoke.

"I can't find a pulse." There was no trace of the panic he'd expected to hear, just lost incomprehension as she turned to Hughes as if he could explain it. But Hughes felt hollowed out, empty of any words of reassurance or comfort. He'd lost many agents in his long career, more than a few of whom he'd counted as friends. He'd learnt the trick of distancing himself from the pain of loss, how to misfile grief in a folder labeled duty - at least until the case was closed. Yet emotional distance proved elusive in the freezing, yet stifling, confines of the trailer with tragedy unfolding before his eyes.

A commotion at the entrance to the container was a welcome distraction. The agents waiting silently at the door parted to make way for three medics. Diana stumbled back, yielding the position next to Peter as two of them approached. The third strode over to Hughes. These medics were embedded in the New York SWAT team, and were agents themselves, and he recognised the man as John Morris, a veteran medical specialist.

"He's one of ours." Hughes preempted any questions, needing this to be understood. It probably wouldn't make any difference, but if it wrung an ounce more effort from the medical team, it had to be stated.

The other man nodded, sympathy in his eyes. "Understood. How long has he been here?"

Hughes rubbed a gloved hand over his right eyebrow, trying unconsciously to erase the headache that had taken up residence there. "I can't answer that with any accuracy. We lost contact with him this morning, but my best guess is that he's only been here in the container for maybe two or three hours. Oh, and he has a bullet wound in the leg."

"Okay, got it. Keep your people out of the way."

Two steps took Morris to Peter's side, where one of the medics started to deliver a concise report. "Heartbeat slow and irregular..."

"He's alive?" Hughes involuntarily exclaimed. As Morris looked up with a frown, the senior agent couldn't help but continue a trifle sheepishly. "We couldn't find a pulse."

Morris nodded, watching his men work as he explained, "With severe hypothermia, peripheral pulses and respiratory efforts can be hard to detect. He is alive, but his condition is critical. We're trying to thermally stabilise him with insulation and inhalation rewarming before transporting him. Our first priority is preventing cardiac complications. Now, I know you're concerned about your agent, but you can help him best by moving your people out and letting us work on him unhindered. We'll be taking him to Mercy Hospital."

Hughes recognised dismissal when he heard it. "His name is Peter. Peter Burke."

Morris acknowledged the slight remonstrance. "That's good to know."

It went against the grain to leave while Peter was fighting for his life, but Hughes reluctantly recognised that their presence was a distraction, and that the medics needed to be totally focused on their patient. He gave a curt nod. "Please keep me updated every step of the way."

Clearly, the news that Peter was alive had helped Diana regain her composure. She was on her feet scrutinizing every movement the medics made.

"Agent Barrigan," Hughes gathered her up with a jerk of his head towards the doorway. "Leave them to do their job. We've got work to do ourselves."

"Yes, Sir." She cast one last desperate look at the activity on the floor before following him obediently.

At the entrance to the container, Hughes turned round to close the doors. He strained his ears for any hint of improvement in Peter's condition, but the murmurs were too soft to pick up. He couldn't even see his agent, only a bundle of blankets and a strange contraption fitting over Peter's face. He pushed the doors almost entirely closed, both to give the occupants privacy and to try and maintain any semblance of heat they generated in that space.

Hughes assembled his team in the shelter and artificial light of the warehouse. Pep talks weren't his style, but the occasion called for rallying words of some kind. "Peter is alive," he began without preamble. "His condition is clearly serious, but he is alive."

There were murmurs of relief and a few muted cheers, an abrupt lightening of the atmosphere as if dawn had arrived early. It was clear that nearly everyone believed that if Peter Burke were alive, if he had a fighting chance, then he'd be fine. He was no quitter, and with medical assistance already at hand, there was nothing to worry about.

Hughes didn't share that optimism, and from Diana's tight jaw line and averted eyes, neither did she. They were the only two who had seen how precariously Peter had been perched on the margin between life and death. But now wasn't the time to wallow in that worry. Now he had to set aside personal feelings, no matter how hard it was. It was easier to compartmentalise his emotions when Peter wasn't dying in front of him.

"I know this has been a long day, and you're all tired, but I'm asking for a group of volunteers to secure the scene and collect all the evidence. I want these guys, and I want the case to be airtight."

He was pleased but not surprised when everyone volunteered to stay. Peter inspired that kind of loyalty in the unit. However, he sent half of them home anyway, knowing he'd need them in for a fresh shift the next day. The vast majority of those who remained were sent under Diana's supervision to pack up the evidence in the office, with just a few going to the guard's booth to ensure there were no unexpected visitors. A general search of the yard would have to wait for daylight and more favorable weather.

As the group dispersed to perform their various tasks, Hughes was left alone with Jones, the one person he hadn't assigned to a team. Although the young man's countenance was as impassive as ever, Hughes could sense anticipation or perhaps apprehension in the tension of his shoulders. That unease was justified, he thought with a touch of bitterness; the task he had in mind for Jones wouldn't be pleasant. Hughes wasn't a man to soften a blow with sweet words, so he launched straight into his request.

"I need you to go and pick up Elizabeth Burke and take her to Mercy Hospital." Hughes only spotted the flinch because he was looking for it. He had given a lot of thought as to who was best suited for this thankless assignment, but didn't share his deliberations with his subordinate, allowing Jones to assume what he liked.

Hughes knew that he himself, as Peter's boss, had an obligation to perform this duty, and it wasn't cowardice that prevented him. Elizabeth had been informed that her husband was missing and, under the circumstances, if, as regulation and propriety suggested, the head of the department appeared on her doorstep, she would immediately jump to an incorrect and heartbreaking conclusion. Although he would immediately disabuse her of the notion that Peter was dead, it might be true by the time they arrived at the hospital. He wouldn't inflict that roller coaster ride of horror on her. He also felt it was important that the message bearer was sympathetic and supportive. He had thought of sending Diana, but she was having trouble controlling her own feelings, and it wouldn't be fair on either woman.

Jones tipped his chin up in a grim nod, accepting the assignment with characteristic stoicism. "Yes, Sir."

"I'll meet you at the hospital when we've wrapped things up here."

Jones wrapped his scarf round himself more securely, tucking the ends under his coat before doing up the top buttons, then plunged back out into the snow. He was quickly hidden from view by the swirling flakes, but Hughes remained staring out after him, seeing nothing, allowing himself a moment in the frigid privacy of the warehouse to feel the weight of his years and responsibilities. Peter had better survive, because that long-evaded retirement was looking good right now, and Peter Burke was the only agent he could imagine handing the reins to and leaving with no qualms as to the future of the department.

He took a deep breath and, on the exhalation, expelled all doubts and weaknesses. He turned on his heel and briskly strode into the recesses of the building to join Diana in the office.

By the time they were finished, dawn was valiantly attempting to light up the sky, thwarted only by thick layers of cloud. The mood had been somber. Hughes had seen a blank look in Diana's eyes a couple of times, but everybody had worked well, although with a minimum of conversation, social instincts muted by worry for Peter's health. Hughes had received a phone call from Morris informing him that Peter had been admitted at the hospital, but there were no details about his condition. Nevertheless, it was promising news. He knew the hospital offered vastly greater opportunities for therapies and, if necessary, resuscitation.

When he dismissed the crew, Diana refused to go home, so he offered her a ride to the hospital, since they clearly had the same destination in mind. Hughes was a taciturn man at the best of times, and with Diana also immersed in her own thoughts, it made for a quiet journey. When they arrived at the hospital, they found Elizabeth and Jones in a similar self-imposed silence.

Jones had clearly plied his badge to procure a private waiting room, almost certainly a staff room. It was clean, but lacked the impersonal sterility of a typical hospital waiting room. A definite bonus was the coffee machine, which would be an immense improvement on the institutionalized, dispensed brown sludge which was the usual fare at the hospital. Jones was pouring sugar into a cup as they entered, and the thought of caffeine reminded Hughes exactly how long it had been since he'd had any sleep.

It was a fleeting thought, driven out of his head almost immediately as El looked up at his entrance, her expression dappled with hope and fear, her face bare of makeup and blotchy with suppressed tears.

"Reese!" She was on her feet in an instant, nervous energy vibrating through her small frame. "Have you heard anything? Do you know what's happening?"

He shook his head as he caught the hand she extended to him between his own, urging her back to the couch and seating himself next to her.

"We've been here more than two hours and nobody's told us anything," she continued a little despondently.

Hughes knew he might not be the most comforting person in an emotional crisis, but he did have a lot of experience with situations such as these and knew that a quiet confidence provided the best reassurance.

"I haven't heard anything recently, but they did let me know that Peter had reached the hospital safely." It was a slight stretch of the truth, but pardonable under the circumstances. "That's the greatest part of the battle in my experience. Peter is strong and in excellent health. I'm sure he's going to be fine."

He patted her hand in what felt to him like a ridiculously avuncular fashion, but she seemed to respond, relaxing slightly and nodding her head in agreement.

"Coffee, sir?" Hughes gratefully accepted the warm, fragrant cup from Jones and settled in to wait. However, he wasn't allowed to enjoy the silence for long. El sat quietly for a moment, knees drawn up to her chest, a furrow between her brows showing that panic had receded to the point that thought had rolled in to replace it.

"So what happened?" she asked abruptly. "They said he'd been shot."

"We're trying to piece it together, but there's a lot we don't know at the moment." It was a press release answer, automatic and noncommittal, and he knew Elizabeth deserved more even as he spoke. The deepening of her frown told him she thought so too, so he added what little he could. "I can tell you that he was shot in the leg. He lost quite a bit of blood, but I don't think it was..." he struggled to find an appropriate word that didn't downplay the severity of a gunshot, but didn't unduly alarm either, "...life-threatening."

He was distracted from her reaction by Diana, who was prowling restlessly around the periphery of the room, picking things up, examining them, then replacing them as if she were at a crime scene. It was the dark fury on her face that caught his attention. Clearly his agent had hydroplaned straight past the uncomfortable emotions of fear and grief and settled in the more familiar territory of anger. For a moment, Hughes felt besieged by the intense emotions of the two women and looked across to Jones for some masculine solidarity. However, that young man was staring into the depths of his coffee mug as if it contained the whereabouts of every criminal on the wanted list, so there was no help from that direction.

With a mental sigh, Hughes reminded himself that he was almost older than the other three occupants combined. Okay, it was a slight exaggeration, but it was up to him to display the maturity that went with that advanced age. He dragged his attention back to El as she started to speak.

"I don't understand. If his injuries are relatively straightforward, why haven't we heard anything?" It wasn't an accusation, but it did contain suspicion.

Hughes knew it had been a mistake to elaborate on his initial response, but he couldn't temporize now. "I believe the main concern isn't the injury caused by the bullet, but the hypothermia..."

"Hypothermia?" El seemed to turn appreciably paler with each syllable of the word. "He was outside in this?" There was no window in the room, but she still looked around for one to verify the direness of the weather.

Hughes was digging himself deeper into a labyrinthian pit of explanations each time he opened his mouth. "Not outside exactly. He wasn't exposed to the elements." He coughed slightly as a delaying tactic while he tried to work out the most tactful way to clarify his statement. "He was...we found him in a shipping container by the waterside."

El's bewilderment locked with outrage to produce a sputter of incoherency. "In a...but how?"

"Caffrey locked him in." An outside voice broke into the intimacy of their exchange.

Hughes' expostulation of, "Damn it, Barrigan!" overlapped with El's, "What?"

Hughes had seen Diana direct that frightening intensity at a suspect before, but had never been the target of it himself. "It was Caffrey who locked him in that box, and he could have died."

"I don't believe that. Neal would never do anything to hurt my husband," El stated adamantly, eyes flashing with anger.

Hughes shot Diana a quelling glare, holding her emotionally overwrought stare until she backed down. "As I said earlier, we really don't know what happened," he answered diplomatically.

"It's ridiculous. Neal may have committed more crimes than he was convicted for, but he's never been violent, and I know he'd never let anything happen to Peter."

"I think you're right. I don't think he intended to hurt Peter. Caffrey was the one who called to tell us where to find Peter. I think he was trying to ensure Peter's safety, but he underestimated both how badly Peter was hurt and how long it would take us to get there in this weather."

Hughes hadn't given too much thought to Neal up to this point. He had been more concerned with Peter's survival and the conviction of those who had shot him. But it made sense, the pieces of a complex jigsaw falling into a flawless pattern. "Caffrey was off his anklet. If he wanted to run, this was the perfect opportunity. They were already listed as missing so he could get a good head start and with the blizzard, any search for him would be impeded. If he wanted to run, he couldn't have timed it any better."

Hughes had convinced himself, albeit with some reluctance. It was disappointing as hell, but perhaps inevitable. Caffrey was a charming rogue. He had done wonders for the department's closure record, but, despite Peter's best efforts, they could scarcely claim to have rehabilitated him. It was an old story with a familiar ending. Hughes couldn't even claim to be surprised, but he knew his lead agent would be devastated, and, from her impassioned defense of the young conman, it seemed that his wife would be too.

However, as he glanced back at El, anger wasn't the emotion predominant on her expressive face. Her countenance shifted rapidly between doubt, dawning horror, and appalled comprehension before rejection wiped them all away. It was an unexpected corroboration which had him peering at his agents for elucidation. Jones looked as if he'd accidentally eaten a bug and was weighing it's nutritional benefits relative to the disgust factor. Hughes decided if that wasn't suspicious enough, Diana was watching El with an unhappy gratification that spoke of recognising another convert to an unpopular cause.

All three appeared to be engaged in a silent conversation in which he was unable to participate because he lacked the vocabulary, and he disliked the implication that his agents had information to which he was not privy. He quickly decided which of his companions was most likely to divulge this private intelligence.

"So, Jones, this theory is dependent on Caffrey deciding to run. Can you tell me why, after nearly a year and a half, that seems to have ripened from an outside chance to a probability?"

"No, Sir." Jones didn't glance at his co-conspirators, but the nervous flicker of his eyelashes indicated his desire to do so.

"No." El's eyes were still a little wild, and her voice a trifle thready, but there was also determination in her stance. "There's some other explanation. Neal wouldn't do this. Now, while I appreciate your company, this is not the time for this conversation, so please change the subject or take it elsewhere. My main concern now is my husband."

She was genuinely upset, and Hughes realised that they had been insensitive, but the FBI agent in him couldn't help wondering if she was covering for someone, probably Peter. However, she was right, this wasn't the time. He apologised and allowed the topic to drop, although his stern stare at both his agents promised to pursue it again with them as soon as socially appropriate.

There was a ruffled edge of awkwardness as the silence resumed. El huddled more into herself, as if her only source of warmth had been removed. Hughes sank back into the soft cushions and watched the new pot of coffee gurgle and drip its way to completion, his mind unwilling to let this new puzzle rest, wondering what he'd missed.

The team's closure rate had remained consistently high, and he'd witnessed no apparent change in the relationship between Peter and Neal. They bickered in the same amicable way, striking against each other like flint against stone to produce flashes of brilliance that flared into case-solving deductions. It was a partnership of contradictions and surprises that was successful to an unprecedented degree. Brilliant minds that had wrapped around the spectrum of criminal activity to meet on a plane of equality. From an intrinsically antagonistic beginning, their relationship had a surprisingly firm foundation, and Hughes had missed the cracks that apparently had been visible to everyone in the room but him. Perhaps Caffrey's supposedly deceased girlfriend, who had caused so much trouble the year before, had proved to be not so departed as originally thought. Her return would throw a decidedly feminine monkey wrench into the proceedings.

Any further conjecture was interrupted by a knock on the door and the entry of a scrubs-clad figure. "Family of Peter Burke?" he asked a little tentatively when faced with the melange of age, race and gender inside the room.

"I'm Elizabeth Burke, his wife." El rose up to meet him, good manners at the forefront despite the fear apparent in the line of her shoulders and crease of her eyes. "These are his colleagues."

"Doctor Pradesh," the young doctor introduced himself, a slight liquid cadence to his accent betraying his Indian heritage, although he was tall relative to most of his culture.

Hughes tried to anticipate the tenor of the doctor's report from his demeanor. The man was professional, so there weren't a lot of clues to read, but Hughes had been in the presence of too many worst-case outcomes to mistake the signs of at least a marginally more favourable disclosure. The doctor just wasn't tense enough to be delivering calamitous news.

"Would you like to go somewhere more private?" the doctor offered. "We can use my office if you'd like."

"Doctor, please, just tell me if my husband is alive." It wasn't a shout, but nor was it a polite request, falling somewhere between a demand and a plea.

"Your husband is alive," he returned promptly and agreeably. He guided her backwards towards the sofa and Hughes yielded his seat so the young man could sit beside her on the sofa. Then without compunction, the veteran agent ejected Jones from the next chair with a jerk of his head.

"Your husband is alive," Doctor Pradesh repeated once they were comfortably seated, "but he's still listed as critical."

Elizabeth's hand was pressed against her mouth, either to stifle a moan of protest or to conceal the tremble of her lips, but she said nothing to interrupt.

"I know it sounds frightening," he continued soothingly, "But your husband's a strong man. He's a fighter."

"Can't you just...warm him up?" El's voice wobbled perceptibly.

"I promise you we are using the most effective warming techniques for the situation. Your husband's condition is complicated by the injury to his leg."

"It didn't look that bad," Diana burst in, forestalling El's comment.

"It isn't, that's the good news. With physical therapy, his leg should be as good as new in a couple of months. However, hypothermia and trauma are not a good combination, and it's making it difficult to stabilise his condition. We have to be extraordinarily careful, because the normal resuscitation methods for the heart don't work in cases of hypothermia.

"The other good news is that your husband's exposure wasn't particularly prolonged. If it wasn't for the blood loss, I believe he would have pulled through with only moderate hypothermia. He appears to have escaped frostbite, and there doesn't appear to be damage to any of his other organs. I really am hopeful for a complete recovery once we get him stabilised. Do you have any questions...any of you?" He included the three agents who had been listening intently.

"Can I see him?" Elizabeth asked immediately.

"I'm sorry, but not just yet. We need unimpeded access right now." He stood up, stretching his shoulders back in an unconscious gesture of tiredness. "But I'll come and let you know when you can, or if there's any change in his condition." With a professional, but genuine, smile, he slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Hughes broke the silence that billowed into the vacuum the doctor left behind, clearing his throat slightly before speaking. "Well, I think that sounded remarkably positive," he stated carefully.

"Do you really think so?" El asked, desperately wanting to interpret the mixed news in the most optimistic light.

"I do," It wasn't just meaningless reassurance. The prognosis was clearly excellent in the long term, and Hughes was feeling more confident that Peter would vault over the short-term hurdle of "critical" with his customary athleticism, even if he needed a boost from the medical staff to assist him in the beginning. "We just have to wait."

"Oh good, my favourite activity." It was said wryly, but the weak joke demonstrated that Elizabeth was recovering her equilibrium under the spell of the words 'complete recovery.' A grunt of agreement from Jones indicated his shared dislike of the proposed inactivity.

Hughes watched as everyone grudgingly settled in for another protracted period of waiting. El tucked her legs back up on the sofa, the curtain of her hair preventing him from seeing her expression or determining more of her state of mind. Diana resumed her pacing, although that word suggested a more regular, systematic motion than the random, desultory movements she took around the room. Jones clearly wanted something more concrete to occupy himself and started to thumb through a magazine lying on a table nearby. Since it appeared to be dedicated to internal prosthetic devices of bizarre shapes and purposes, Hughes had to give him points for persistence.

Until Peter regained consciousness, it would be a dismal wait for all of them.


	5. Chapter 5

Sidelined Chapter 5

Awareness crept up on Peter slowly; his body sluggishly catching up with his waking brain. There was a soft mattress beneath him instead of a hard, frozen floor, and a pile of blankets had replaced the insufficient, flimsy weight of his jacket. That was significant, but he wasn't sure why. He was still cold, a marrow-deep chill that permeated every bone in his body, leaving them brittle and aching.

His head was stuffed with cotton, pounding in time to his pulse, and pressure shoved brutally against sinuses and eardrums as if he were drowning, his lungs rattling with each painful breath. Dragging in air was an effort, a long drawn-out process that burned his airways.

"Peter?"

The familiar voice forced his eyelids open involuntarily, and he blinked slowly as he struggled to focus. He didn't need perfect vision to recognize the blurred, but beautiful, face in front of him.

"El." The word got lost as it scraped along his dry throat. He tried swallowing to moisten its passage, and winced at the scratch of parched tissues.

"W...water?" he tried.

He didn't think the sound that emerged was intelligible, but a straw appeared beside his lips, and he sucked at it gratefully; the water soothing, refreshing, soaking into the cracks and crevices of his mouth. He tried to push himself up to greet his wife properly, but his arms were dead lumps, and every muscle screamed in protest as if just released from an all-consuming cramp. Not wanting to distress El further, he pretended to be settling into a more comfortable position and changed the wince into a smile.

He didn't think she was fooled, since concern was tight in her voice as she stated, "I'm calling the doctor."

His protest was ignored, but he found he was happy to escape her loving scrutiny for a minute as it gave him the opportunity to inventory his external surroundings and internal condition, though even with hazy vision, it didn't take a stretch of his detective skills to realise he was in a hospital. At first, he thought the fuzziness he was experiencing might be due to drugs, but his leg was throbbing with fierce intensity, and there was a cacophony of competing claims from the rest of his body, so he actually hoped he wasn't on pain killers or his faith in their palliative effects would be severely diminished.

He summoned another smile for El as she returned accompanied by a female doctor, but he couldn't shake a feeling of disquiet. He was missing something obvious. His mind worried at the sensation, and he answered the doctor's questions distractedly.

He tried once more to prop himself up higher, but the movement sent another wave of pain and weakness through him, forcing him to grit his teeth as he waited for the feeling to diminish. He tried to focus on El, who was gripping his hand as if she were afraid he'd slip away if she loosened her hold.

As the doctor proceeded with her physical exam, she also asked questions, testing his recollection of the ordeal that had landed him in the hospital. At the mention of the metal container, the memory hit him like a torpedo launched from his unconscious - an unseen attack, unexpected and devastating.

"Neal!" He jackknifed upwards, the pain of protesting stomach muscles lost beneath the memory of muffled shots. He tightened his grip on El's hand. "Is he here? Is he okay?"

The answer was clearly negative. The doctor was insisting he lie back down, and he vaguely recognised the justification for her concern. His gut was churning thickly, and he thought he might throw up. It had nothing to do with his injuries, but everything to do with the guilt he could see in his wife's blue eyes. She wasn't any better at lying to him than he was at fooling her, and he could only think of one thing that would instill that emotion in her.

"El?" he said helplessly, not knowing if he was begging her to tell him or begging her not to. An aching fear of loss rippled through him, clamping down on his heart. Neal couldn't be dead. Swallowing suddenly became impossible, and his vision blurred. He shut his eyes tightly, shielding himself from the emotional devastation of that idea with a firm barrier of denial.

Neal's very vitality would repel Death, and he would con his way past any Grim Reaper. Peter couldn't think about the huge hole that would be left in his life if Neal were gone. Somehow, while he was watching Neal for signs of recidivism, he'd missed his smaller crimes, the way the young man had penetrated all his defenses, infiltrating all the important areas of his life, work and family.

He called Neal his partner, but the conman was still a civilian. It was Peter's job to keep him safe, and he hadn't. Guilt hit him full force, and his breath hitched in response, a wave of despair washing through him, leaving him hollow inside.

"Peter... Peter!" He became aware that El was shaking him frantically, but his muscles were locked rigid under her hand. It was easier to face his failure in private, but he opened his eyes reluctantly, never able to refuse El anything.

"Neal's missing," she admitted gravely. "But there's nothing to indicate it's worse than that."

The words slithered past his grasp, so it took a long moment to register them, but as he did, he cautiously relaxed, allowing hope to unfurl slightly in his chest. 'Missing.' He could do missing. He was the world's expert at 'missing Neal.' In fact, he should get moving on that right away.

"What are you doing?" Peter subsided instantly at the testy, almost incredulous, tone in his wife's voice.

"Um...Nothing," he lied a trifle sheepishly, pulling back the covers that he had started to remove.

"You were shot, Peter. You almost died. Do you have any idea..." She broke off, biting her lip. Her voice was sharp, but Peter had been married long enough to recognise that the edge wasn't anger, but long-suppressed worry manifesting itself as temper.

El rarely cried, but she was perilously close to breaking down now. All Peter's attention was instantly focused on her, and he pulled on her hand, reeling her in like a particularly recalcitrant fish. Her resistance was only momentary, then she fell into his embrace willingly, burrowing into his shoulder. She didn't make a sound or even move; it was only the wet heat that soaked into his shirt that told him she was crying.

"I'm sorry, Hon, I'm so sorry. It's going to be fine. I'm okay. It's going to be fine now." Peter might hate dealing with weeping women, but this was El, and he knew instinctively that she needed verbal and physical proof of his continued existence, so even though his arms felt like leaden stumps, he wrapped them around her tightly and kept muttering reassuring nothings into her ear.

Exhaustion dictated he couldn't hold that position for more than thirty seconds, but reality could wrap itself in a pigskin and drop kick itself out of the stadium. He would hold this position as long as his wife needed. In the end, it was Doctor Seaford, whose presence they had both forgotten, who put an end to the hug.

"Mrs. Burke, I can appreciate how difficult this has been for you, but your husband needs to rest."

El instantly tried to pull away, but Peter held on for a soggy kiss before allowing himself to rest back against the pillows. "I really am okay, Honey," he told her again, hoping repetition would provide the reassurance that his appearance probably didn't.

She nodded, smiled tremulously, then pulled a tissue from a box on the night stand, wiping her face and blowing her nose with an unladylike honk. Peter watched her nervously as one would scrutinize a recently disarmed bomb, unsure if the halted countdown represented a true cessation of danger or if it was only a temporary reprieve. He didn't want to upset her again, but he needed information. There was no way he could rest with the uncertainty of Neal's fate hanging over him like a curved eroteme-shaped sword of Damocles.

"El?" he began tentatively. Her shoulders slumped as she took in the look on his face. "I'm really sorry," he continued wretchedly, "But I have to know what happened. Neal...he's...there were shots. If anything happened to him...he's my responsibility. He's my friend, and I have to know."

There was a flash of something in her eyes, maybe anger or guilt, but it was gone before he could identify it, and there was just resignation in the smile she gave him. "I know. I understand. I'm going to call Reese. He needs to talk to you anyway, and he can tell you if there's any more news."

He watched her disappear from the room a second time, staring at the empty doorway until he felt the doctor's disapproving eyes on him. "What?" he asked defensively.

"Mr. Burke..."

"Agent Burke," he interrupted automatically.

"Agent Burke, you need to understand that you were in critical condition less than twelve hours ago. Your body needs rest. This isn't a suggestion, it's a requirement. You are putting not only your health, but your future in your department in jeopardy if you don't take this seriously."

Peter nodded obediently, but he wasn't really listening. He was still missing something. It was right in front of him, but he couldn't see it, cloaked as it was by a forest of other unanswered questions.

"Agent Burke?"

Peter met the doctor's gaze innocently. He thought he'd nodded and made agreeable noises at all the appropriate places, a skill learned over a decade of marriage, but she seemed to have the ability to tell when his attention strayed. He replayed her last stricture. "Yes, absolutely I'm taking this seriously," he affirmed.

She cast him a look of disbelief. "I'd give you a sedative, if it wasn't counter-indicated by your symptoms." She swirled out the room, her white coat almost crackling with starch. It didn't seem the most appropriate time to ask for an increase in his pain meds, but even if it had been, Peter would have refrained. He needed to keep a clear head; Neal was depending on him.

He mentally replayed the events of the day before - at least, he was presuming it was yesterday. He wasn't sure how much time he'd lost. He needed to pin down that sensation of overlooking the obvious. He was suddenly conscious of being out of the loop, isolated from his normal resources of technology and personnel, and he wondered how long it would be before he could get hold of a laptop and his files.

However, he'd exchange all his professional paraphernalia for the presence of his partner. Neal's encyclopedic and esoteric knowledge was a match for a computer any day in their line of work, and, more importantly, he was the perfect sounding board, his methods weaving together with Peter's like snug warp and weft threads producing masterful skeins of deduction. Of course, Neal wasn't here because he...

He looked around frantically for a phone. His cell phone had been taken by the art thieves, so there was no point trying to locate his clothes. Didn't all hospital rooms have phones? He snarled in frustration at the conspicuous lack of any type of telecommunications device. Fine, if that elementary convenience couldn't be provided by the hospital, he'd have to go and find one.

It was a simple plan, but apparently completely lacking in foresight. By the time he'd pushed off the copious covers and dragged his legs around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his muscles were trembling in persistent jagged spasms. It was impossible to tell if this was a consequence of the cold that still seemed to infuse his being, exhaustion, or pain from his injured leg that protested the slightest movement. Clearly, any attempt to move further unaided would result in a face plant of massive and embarrassing proportions.

He scanned the room again, but apparently it was not only deficient in electronic devices but also in the more regular medical appliances like wheelchairs or crutches that you could reasonably expect to find in such an environment. He couldn't even hop, because lifting his right leg even an inch off the ground wasn't feasible.

A bitter sting of frustration curled upward through his stomach and lodged in his chest. His best friend was missing and he, the FBI agent, couldn't even get out of bed. Just as he was contemplating an undignified crawl to the door, El returned, her eyes widening in dismay and vexation as she took in his position.

With hindsight, he should have stated that he needed the bathroom or offered some other excuse that would have garnered sympathy rather than disapproval, but his own condition was forgotten in his urgency for answers. He blurted out his question before considering the circumstances. "How did they know where to find me?"

El's expression was bleak. "Get back into bed properly, and I might consider telling you."

Peter cast a startled look down as if his legs had crawled out of bed on their own volition. "I didn't...I wasn't going anywhere." That was the truth, thanks to the lack of mobility aids. "I just wanted a telephone."

"To call a taxi to take you into the office? Or merely to call the office in to you?"

"Honey," he said in a hopeless attempt at conciliation, at a loss to explain, without upsetting her further, how the worst part of the ordeal in the container had been the uncertainty of Neal's fate, and how it continued to haunt him.

He took both her hands in his, meeting her blue eyes candidly. "I'm warm, comfortable, well-fed and with the person I love." The first claim was a slight exaggeration, but he had to make his point. "I won't be able to relax until I know that Neal can say the same. Do you understand? I'm not trying to endanger my health, but Neal's still out there."

He caught a flicker of frustration or distress before she dropped her eyes in defeat. "I do understand, but I think that you don't..." she broke off and took a deep breath before starting again. "You won't be of any help to him if you don't take care of yourself. Hughes will be here in about an hour, and he'll brief you on any developments."

"Did he say if they'd heard anything?" Peter tried not to sound too eager.

Elizabeth shook her head. "I don't think so."

"That's not good," he stated grimly, his worried look intensifying starkly. "What's the weather doing?" Blinds covered the windows, so he had no sense of the conditions outside.

"The snow's stopped, but the temperature's still below freezing."

Peter's mouth tightened into a bleak line. "Then I hope he's not out in it. Not that the alternatives are much better." His brow creased slightly. "You didn't answer my question. How did they find me?"

"I really don't know the details. All I know is that Neal called it in."

He brightened instantly, although he ran a quick timeline in his head before allowing a gleam of optimism to thaw the worst of his fears. "That's the best news I've heard all day."

El looked happy to see the slight easing of his tension, but also slightly puzzled, so he elaborated. "Just before I lost consciousness, I heard shots fired. Neal had to be the target. There was not enough time for him to get to a phone before that, so that hopefully means he got away unscathed. Of course, that makes his disappearance all the more puzzling."

He didn't notice that her eyes never quite met his as he worked through the problem out loud, and he took her silence for a worry that matched his. "Maybe he's hurt and he wandered off. Was there any indication of injury in his phone call? Where have they looked?"

"I really don't know. You'll have to ask Reese." She abruptly changed the subject. "Peter, you're shaking!"

"Yeah, it seems I can't quite convince my body yet that it's warm. Nothing to worry about. The doctor says it's quite common." It wasn't a lie, but the whole truth was that he felt if he didn't hold himself tight, he'd fly off into little pieces, and he wasn't ready to share that little nugget of information.

"You're also exhausted," El pointed out. "Could you please just rest until Reese arrives. I promise that, if you fall asleep, I'll wake you up as soon as he gets here."

It made sense to conserve his energy until he could actually do something constructive, and keeping El happy was a definite bonus, so he burrowed down obediently, knowing the value of compromise. He was too tired to remain awake, but neither could he actually sleep. He dozed, his worry for Neal floating in and out of his mind like flotsam on the tide of consciousness.

The murmur of voices brought him back to full alertness. El noticed his opening eyes and greeted him with a strained smile. "Hi, Hon. Reese just arrived, so I was about to wake you up."

Peter tried to respond, but his mouth had dried up again. He levered himself up awkwardly and reached out for a glass of water. He successfully retrieved the cup, but the water inside it rippled as if undergoing a significant earthquake. El steadied his hand before he took a drink.

"I'm going to leave you two to talk. Visiting time is almost over, so I'm going to head home, have a shower, and check on Satchmo." She dropped a kiss on her husband's cheek and exchanged a few pleasantries with Hughes as she packed a few things up before leaving.

Hughes sat in her vacated chair, pulling it slightly nearer the bed and running an assessing eye over his lead agent. "Good to see you, Peter, and I have to say that you're looking a damn sight better than when I last saw you."

"Yes, Sir, and I count myself very lucky to have got out of that situation in one piece." Peter worried momentarily at the blanket beneath his fingers, but it was too scratchy and sterilized to be comfortable. He tried to think of a subtle way to initiate the conversation he needed to have, but gave that up in favor of following his own lead-in. "It's beginning to look as if Neal hasn't been as fortunate. Can you bring me up to date on what is being done to find him?"

Hughes had one of the best poker faces in the business, so Peter could read nothing from his expression. "I'm going to need to take a preliminary statement from you, since our information is lacking in details." He hesitated slightly, "But, you're right, let's get this issue of Caffrey out of the way first. At the moment, our greatest efforts are being concentrated on finding the men who shot you, but we have an APB out on Caffrey."

"Excuse me, Sir?" He must be mistaken in what Hughes was saying. An APB suggested that Neal was a suspect wanted for a crime, and that implication was so far from the track Peter was following , it wasn't even in the same state.

Hughes sighed. "We have to be realistic here. It might not have been premeditated, but Caffrey couldn't have chosen a better time to make a run for it. He was off anklet and, with the weather and your disappearance, our resources were otherwise engaged. He could be anywhere by now."

"With all due respect, you're wrong if you think Neal has made a run for it." Peter's back was ramrod straight, although his muscles ached cruelly with the effort of keeping him in that position.

Hughes regarded him shrewdly. "I find your defense of him interesting since your team found the explanation all too plausible."

Peter was momentarily floored by the accusation, then he realised that his boss was referring, knowingly or not, to the Nazi treasure. He allowed the idea a moment's consideration, but quickly rejected it. Although he believed that the art had almost certainly survived the explosion and that Neal knew its present whereabouts, he didn't for a moment believe that Neal would run under these circumstances. In fact, he didn't believe Neal really wanted to run at all, but if the young man chose to do so, he would have no difficulty picking his own time. The anklet was no real impediment to a criminal of Neal's abilities. However, the one thing he knew with absolute certainty was that Neal would never abandon him when Peter was hurt. Such an act of desertion was foreign to the young man's character.

He wished he weren't in a bed; it put him at a disadvantage when he really needed to convey authority and certainty, not vulnerability. There was already the suspicion that he was emotionally compromised - his friendship with Neal casting doubt on his objectiveness. If Neal did run, and Peter still had a job afterwards, he would probably recuse himself from the case. The first time round, the cat and mouse game between them had been fun, an intellectual challenge against a worthy opponent, but now the thought of putting Neal back in jail left a hollow twisting ache in his gut. Ultimately, however, he just didn't believe that Neal would take that irretrievable step.

He drew himself up, shoulders stiff, spine board-straight, his face stony with the attempt to control his frustration. "Sir, if Neal's still missing, then he's badly hurt or captured. Either way, he's in terrible danger. He's risked his life for this department time and time again. How many times does he have to prove himself before we accord him the trust that we show the rest of our people? He's one of ours. The department should be using every resource it has to recover him, not treating him like an escaped criminal."

Hughes looked uncertain, which Peter hoped was an indication of progress. He decided to drop the formality between them. "Reese, you employ me to be the Caffrey expert in our department, so trust me now. Neal has not run."

"Okay," Hughes sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Convince me."

Peter took a moment to marshall his thoughts under the guise of taking another sip of water. "He saved my life. He had already reached safety when I went down. He came back to help, putting himself in the line of fire again. Then he lugged me around until I couldn't go any further, so he found me a safe place to hide from the gunmen who were chasing us. Those aren't the actions of a man planning to run."

Hughes looked troubled, gruffly sympathetic, but still doubtful. "Peter, I certainly accept the fact that Neal would never deliberately hurt you, and his courage is undisputed. However, you have to admit that he made some very questionable decisions. That container wasn't exactly a safe place to leave you. You nearly froze to death there. By the time we found you, we couldn't detect your pulse. Worse than that, you were trapped in there. Did you realise that he locked you in?"

"Is that what this is about?" Anger wrangled with guilt as understanding seeped in like a stain. He dragged in a deep breath and tried to filter the irritation out of his tone. "You're right. Locking the container might have been stupid, but that wasn't Neal's decision, that was mine. He categorically refused to leave me - insisted he would carry me out if necessary. I had to convince him that going for help was a better idea. With a small army of armed men searching for us, an unlocked container would be a red flag. With hindsight, I can see it was a bad idea, but at the time, it was the only way I could convince Neal that I'd be safe if he left."

Hughes remained unmoved, literally and figuratively. "You make a compelling argument, and I'll certainly believe that he did everything he could for you, but there are certain facts that you may be unaware of."

Peter tipped his head in reluctant agreement, conceding the point, but not the argument. "I'm sure there's a lot of information I'm missing, and I'd appreciate being brought up to date on everything."

Hughes had had a lot of practice being inscrutable, and he was putting it all to use, but Peter could still sense a vague sympathy that disturbed him more than disapproval would. "It was Neal who called in your location. He made his way to some office buildings maybe half a mile away. I spoke to him myself, and he assured me that he was unhurt and safe. I told him to stay where he was and..."

"You told him to stay?" Peter interrupted with dry incredulity.

Hughes frowned with displeasure. He was used to his authority being all that was needed for an order to be obeyed. "In retrospect, I should have remembered that that concept was a hard one for Caffrey to grasp," he admitted. "As I was saying, I told him to stay in a safe place, and he agreed to do so, and I sent a team to retrieve him. By the time they arrived, he was gone. There was no sign he was taken by force or did anything but leave of his own volition. We searched nearby hospitals and the surrounding area in case he was concealing an injury and was lying hurt somewhere. Yet, if he left voluntarily, he has not made his whereabouts known to the office, so it's a safe assumption that he's run. Where else could he be?"

"He came back for me," Peter blurted out. The thought was immediate and so was the knowledge that he was right. "Neal knew I was in trouble. He knew the cold and blood loss could be lethal, so he came back."

"That's quite a leap of faith. How can you be sure?"

_Because it's what I'd do_. Peter didn't utter the words that trembled on the tip of his tongue, but decided on a more easily accepted answer. "I'm the resident Caffrey expert, remember. This is Neal we're talking about. He has the survival instincts God gave lemmings. He wouldn't sit on his hands waiting tamely to be picked up when he could leap back into the fray." Peter was hardly thinking about what he was saying, his mind frantically working through the implications of this realisation.

As if he could read Peter's mind, the older agent tentatively asked, "Do you think he's still alive?"

"He's alive!" Peter's answer was almost violent, a knee-jerk reaction of what he needed to be true. However, he offered justification for the belief. "The most dangerous time would be when they caught him, but if they'd killed him, they'd have just left the body. They were bugging out, in a hurry. They wouldn't have taken the time to do anything else. So, if he was alive when they took him, I believe he's still alive. Given half a chance to run his mouth, Neal would have persuaded them of the benefits of keeping him around."

It was logical, but Peter was aware that criminals are often not logical, and his heart thudded painfully at the thought of the alternative. Hughes said nothing for several minutes, staring blankly ahead in deep thought, and Peter made no attempt to interrupt his deliberations, his own mind whirring in circles of speculation, lost on a greased wheel of anxiety.

Finally, his boss looked up. "Your theory is plausible. Okay, for now we'll act under the assumption that Caffrey is being held against his will. However, I'm going to leave the APB in place, since it might still prove helpful."

The image of Neal injured and a prisoner came vividly to Peter's mind, and he stomped it down so he could concentrate, but it refused to entirely leave him. "Make it clear he's under duress. I don't want some idiot shooting him if he escapes. But all our efforts need to be placed on finding these guys."

Hughes cleared his throat, and Peter could tell by his expression that he wouldn't like what came next. "You're going to have to take a back seat on this one. You can't head the investigation when you're off duty for medical reasons."

"I'll be out of here tomorrow," Peter stated with determination.

Hughes arched a brow, then leaned over and tapped the plastic hospital bracelet around Peter's wrist "Do the doctors know that? You nearly died, Peter."

"So people keep reminding me, but hypothermia isn't a chronic condition. The doctors are keeping me here for one more night to ensure there are no complications, but after that I'm clear. I'll have to come in for outpatient PT for my leg, but that's all."

"But how long before you're back on the active list?"

Peter dodged the question. "I'm not intending to run anywhere, so what difference does it make? I'm the only witness you have, and that makes me the only chance you have of identifying them. I need to look through the books and work with a sketch artist. These weren't your typical art thieves. They were not only well organised, but they also had an army of muscle. The other thing that worries me is that there was no Middle Eastern connection that I could see. This wasn't a group that could waltz into an Emirate unnoticed and perform a heist. Either they're acting as middlemen or they ripped off the original thieves."

Hughes nodded his acceptance. "Okay, I have no problem with you helping out behind the scenes, but you're not taking point on this one."

"Yes, Sir." If there was one lesson he'd learnt from Neal, it was that it was easier to apologise after the fact than it was to try to persuade someone to your way of thinking. He was the world's expert at finding Neal Caffrey, and this wouldn't be an exception. He _would_ find Neal.

They were interrupted by a nurse who popped her head around the door to remind them that visiting hours were over. Hughes stood up. "You get some rest. I'll send Diana round in the morning to take your statement and help with the IDs."

Peter again nodded his compliance, but with every intention of calling Diana himself to get things moving more quickly. This plan ended up being postponed for longer than he liked when his doctor came in for another evaluation. Pleasant cooperation was in his best interests if he wanted her to sign off on his discharge papers the next day. He endured the excessive prodding without complaint, and his forbearance paid off when the doctor grudgingly admitted that his baselines all looked promising and that, although she was off for the weekend in a couple of hours, she would leave word for her counterpart that he could be released if there were no counter indications the next day.

She frowned quellingly at his obvious delight at the news and proceeded once again to lecture him on the dangers of overdoing things. He decided she wasn't the right person to ask about acquiring a phone, so it wasn't until later in the evening that an impressionable young nurse obligingly deposited the much-sought-after device in his room.

Diana seemed happy to hear from him, but was also strangely subdued, especially after he railed at Hughes' ridiculous assumptions about Neal's disappearance. She readily agreed to commence a genuine hunt for the missing CI, and promised to be at the hospital first thing in the morning to help Peter ID the art thieves.

Bereft of company and distractions for the first time since he'd regained consciousness, Peter was besieged by his own dismal thoughts. He was relieved that his own prognosis was so favourable, but the knowledge of his young partner's uncertain fate robbed him of any peace of mind. He was used to action, to taking command and solving problems, so the current feeling of helplessness grated harshly on his nerves.

He had developed a new sympathy for Neal's earlier reluctance to leave him at the shipping yard. No matter how unintentional, in fact unknowing, Peter's own departure from the scene had been, he had still left his partner behind and, as he lay in the silent loneliness of the hospital room, brittle with exhaustion, it felt like rank desertion.

Sleep pulled him inexorably down, but his repose was anything but restful, plagued by troubled dreams, urgent images that crumpled and deformed before he could grasp them. In the fretful interstices of slumber, he tossed and turned, weary muscles twitching in denied motion.

He had startled awake so often during the night that, at first, he wasn't sure why this time was different. It was clearly still the early hours of the morning, although the dark inside the building had been partly vanquished by the electric glow of monitors and emergency lights. He could hear the soft hum of activity outside in the corridor and even muted voices in another room, but that wasn't what had woken him up.

There was someone in his room, and it wasn't a member of the medical staff. Peter had worked undercover enough to have developed a sixth sense for when someone was watching him, and he could feel eyes staring at him now. A chill settled over him, alarm crawling along the skin of his arms, raising the fine hairs, and a prickle of cold sweat broke out on his back.

He was very glad the heart monitor had been disconnected, because he would have had no chance of playing possum with the staccato rhythm betraying his agitation. As it was, his heartbeat seemed to be thundering loud enough in his ears to be heard at the nurses' station.

It was hard to imagine a more vulnerable position than being trapped under the covers. He was unarmed, with no way of protecting himself except possibly by turning the multi-purpose telephone into a projectile. He had been a pitcher in baseball, so his throwing arm, under normal circumstances, was strong and accurate.

He concentrated on keeping his breathing even, trying to ascertain his visitor's intent by listening for the quickening of breath or the rustle of clothing that might signal an approach. He caught a whisper of sound from near the window, but there was nothing to suggest malicious design.

After another couple of minutes, Peter had had enough. He always preferred clear information to continued mystery. He sat up abruptly, eyes unerringly finding the shadowy figure in the gloom. There was no mistaking that diminutive silhouette.

"Mozzie!"


	6. Chapter 6

Sidelined Ch 6

Holding one's hands up in surrender in the middle of a blizzard was a sure recipe for instant frostbite and ensuing gangrene, so, despite the fact that his long-term prospects was precarious at best anyway, Neal lowered his arms while still keeping them circumspectly open by his sides.

He didn't expect his charming smile to get him out of this one, but it wouldn't hurt to lay the groundwork. "I'm glad I found you guys. It's too cold to be racing around trying..."

"Shut up!" The muzzle of a gun was pushed hard against the back of his head, rocking it forward. Neal could tell that his continued survival was balanced precariously on the knife edge of this man's whim.

His mouth was dry and tendrils of fear raced through his veins, invading his chest and squeezing, igniting a flood of adrenaline. Yet, accompanying this dread was a sense of inevitability - he had been courting this fate since he started his illustrious career. It had been a flirtation marked by death-defying stunts, reckless choices, and the blatant disregard of convention and precaution - a criminal parkour of style and daring.

Yet, balancing this fatalism was an equal and opposite belief that his frequent companion, Lady Luck, wouldn't desert him. She might be fickle, but she'd always been there in times of crisis. It was this conviction that allowed him to smother panic at the prospect of imminent death, that imbued him with a relentless spark of hope, preventing him from freezing and allowing him to control the raging adrenaline rush, channeling it productively. His muscles were tensed in what would be a futile effort to dodge a bullet, so he forced himself to relax and project a confidence that would unsettle his aggressors.

His mind was clear - prioritizing, assessing, processing possible strategies, while simultaneously collating contributory data from his senses that appeared to be working in overdrive, taking in the slickness underfoot, the dissolution of a snowflake on his nose, the sour breath of the gunman beside him that stung his nostrils in alternating waves with the crystalline purity of the snow.

He was also hyperaware that Peter's container was only a few yards away. A few steps forward and he could probably see a sliver of its dull red side. He had been seconds away from betraying Peter's location. That thought was even more chilling than the surrounding temperature. Neal had no doubts that the gang would have summarily executed the FBI agent, not wanting to be slowed down by an injured man or to leave a witness behind to identify them.

He hoped that Peter, if he was, by some remote chance, still conscious, couldn't hear the nearby activity, because there was no chance the agent would remain passively concealed if he realised his partner was in danger.

"Come on, guys," he urged them cajolingly, "I'm almost frozen solid already, and I have some important information for your boss." The latter comment, while true, was mainly added to remind them that they were just hired hands, and someone in authority would be better making important decisions such as potentially ordering the murder of a valuable asset.

He saw indecision in the face of the man in front of him, and there was a quick exchange of glances between the thugs, while Neal tried to look as useful, but as unthreatening, as possible. It was a convoluted image to project, but apparently he succeeded in his goal, as suddenly the leading gunman gestured with his weapon.

"All right. This way, but if you try to run, I'll gutshoot you."

"No running," Neal assured him fervently. "At the moment, all I can think of is getting warm." He was fairly sure his blue-tinged lips and violent tremors would attest to the truth of that statement.

They shepherded him carefully through the metal canyons, flanking him whenever possible. Knowing this wasn't the time to effect an escape, Neal followed meekly, an inchoate plan forming in his fertile mind.

A truck rumbled away from the entrance to the warehouse as they approached and, guessing the stolen art was probably on board, Neal took a quick, but surreptitious note of its license plate and markings. He was ushered into the comparative warmth of the building, where he was the cynosure of a few curious and hostile eyes, but most of the people working there earlier seemed to have vanished, bolting for cover at the suggestion that their illicit activities had been compromised.

A rough hand on his shoulder steered him into an office where two men were quickly, but competently, throwing some files into boxes. They both had dark, oiled hair and beetling black brows over sharp cheekbones. Matching sets of cold, murky eyes marked them as brothers or at least close family.

The younger of the two, judging by the lack of the gray that streaked the other man's temples, addressed the gunmen sharply in what Neal recognised as Russian, and a quick exchange followed. Neal might have been unable to follow the details, but it was obvious that his fate was being determined, and he decided he needed to be proactive in diverting adverse resolutions.

"I can triple the money you make on that artwork," he announced, masochistically satisfied when all attention switched to him. "We can help each other in a working partnership. I can make you exponentially rich if you..."

"Enough!" Neal's sales pitch was cut short by the older man, whom he mentally labeled as 'the Boss.' He was more unnerved than he wanted to show by the abrupt interruption and the flat eyes that scrutinized him closely. Had he misjudged the man? The vast majority of criminals responded positively to the lure of additional money dangled enticingly in front of them. However, there were always exceptions, and this was clearly a man who would not let greed override his good judgment. Maybe the Boss sensed that Neal was playing for time, or perhaps he believed that the profit he stood to make was sufficient without accepting additional risk.

"We are leaving now, and you will accompany us." The Boss's accent was thick, but his English was fluent. "If you attempt to escape, we will tie a block to your feet and throw you into the river."

Neal had no difficulty believing the threat, but before he could offer a promise to forgo any actions that might lead to swimming lessons, the Boss had turned his attention to his foot soldiers, throwing them a roll of duct tape from the top of the desk. "Take him to the boat and tie him up. We'll be right there."

His scalp crawled at the thought of being thrown overboard in such a helpless condition. His body composition wasn't favourable for floating at the best of times, and with his arms bound, he wouldn't stand a chance of survival. He didn't want to die in the polluted waters of the East River or the slightly more salubrious waters of the Atlantic for that matter.

Even if the immediate crisis seemed to have been averted, Neal was under no illusion that he had done more than postpone his possible demise. He pulled his borrowed, flimsy jacket more tightly around himself as they emerged once more into the swirling blizzard. Apart from the soft crunch of their footsteps, the snow muffled all other noise, creating a curious sense of isolation.

Neal yearned for the friendly sound of a siren, a sentiment it was hard to imagine himself uttering even in the privacy of his own mind. He'd got soft, accustomed to having back up he could trust. That was one of the benefits to being, temporarily maybe, half-heartedly perhaps, on the virtuous side of the law. Right now, the announcement of an FBI presence would provide the distraction he needed to escape from his captors, negate the necessity of getting on the boat, and provide Peter with the help he so desperately needed – a trifecta of perfection as far as Neal was concerned. In fact, he'd never let Mozzie speak badly of 'the man' again if they could coordinate such excellence.

He slowed his footsteps to allow the FBI as much time as possible to achieve that miracle, faking a coughing fit and slipping and sliding more than necessary as they headed down toward the dock. His delaying tactics garnered him a bruised shin and a clip over the head with a closed fist. Trying not to let his trepidation show, he climbed over the gunwale of a well-equipped, but dirty, trawler.

He knew his way around boats, having once crewed a millionaire's yacht in the Mediterranean – a story that he wouldn't be mentioning to Peter. However, he was much happier on land where his fleet legs could carry him away from trouble. He was an excellent swimmer, but he knew that the water around the boat would sap his remaining warmth in seconds and his strength in minutes. Any attempt to escape now would be tantamount to suicide.

His captors, however, were taking no chances. They restrained his arms behind him, wrapping them securely with duct tape, then, pushing him to the floor, they repeated the procedure with his feet. One of them went back up through the hatch, but the other sat down to guard him, an annoying precaution. Neal thought longingly of handcuffs and padlocks, while testing the sticky, tensile strength of the tape. It wasn't entirely impossible to escape from duct tape restraints, but it required considerable squirming, so it wasn't something that could be attempted in front of a hostile jailer.

Accepting the fact that he had to run this con for real, Neal forced himself to relax, the rocking motion of the boat reminding him how long it had been since he'd slept. The wooden floor would feel cold later, but since it was still twenty degrees warmer than the temperature outside, he was glad of that comparative warmth. He periodically flexed his fingers and feet to keep blood flowing to his extremities. His situation was miserable, but not desperate, since he could make a strong case for his continued survival until a genuine opportunity for escape arose.

The boat dipped twice as more people stepped on board, then the engine roared to life, and the sickly odor of gasoline fumes filtered up to him. There was nothing to brace himself against, so he went sprawling as acceleration tilted the boat to an unnatural angle.

The journey soon ranked as the most uncomfortable trip he'd ever taken, and that included the time he'd smuggled himself across a border in a truck full of rutabagas. Tightly wound muscles sent pain shooting through his shoulder blades, protesting angrily the lengthy time they'd been forced back into an unnatural position, and it wasn't long before his body, inactive and damp from snow, insisted that the previously acceptable temperature was now chilly, and he started to shiver relentlessly.

He was actually grateful for the distraction when, half an hour later, the Boss and his brother, whom for convenience's sake he nicknamed 'Blackbeard,' came to interrogate him. It was the perfect time for such a session, since if they didn't get the answers they wanted, they were in the perfect place for easy disposal of his body.

Neal felt at a considerable disadvantage on the floor, so he was relieved when the larger thug reached down and yanked him to his feet, pushing him down in a seat opposite the padded bench where the two Russians had seated themselves. He tried to sit up a little straighter and flexed his shoulders hoping for some relief from the aching there.

There were no threats uttered; none were needed. Everyone understood the consequences of noncompliance. However, even with that threat looming, Neal wasn't overly intimidated, still secure in his value to such men. His plan wasn't complex – he was going to tell the truth, with just a few tweaks to make his recent resume more palatable. While Neal Caffrey on paper might not appeal to a prospective girlfriend, there was a lot to recommend him to a group of art thieves.

"Name?" Blackbeard took the lead again in the interrogation.

"Neal Caffrey," he recited obediently

"You said you could make us three times as much money. Explain." Clearly preliminaries weren't necessary. There would be time enough to go through such niceties if they decided to keep Neal around.

"I'm a counterfeiter and an art forger, and I'm the best in the business." Modesty had no place here. "Many museums have my pieces up in them without being any the wiser. I can give you a list if you want to check it out. Try 'Girl with Locket,' a Haustenberg, in the Channing Museum."

"So?" Neither man looked too impressed, and Neal wondered how such obvious Philistines had ended up in the world of art theft. He kept his disdain camouflaged by an eager smile.

"So, you have some fantastic stolen art work. I can forge copies - two or three for each piece – and you make double or triple the price that just selling the original would make."

The two brothers exchanged glances, and with a slight nod and a shrug of one shoulder, Neal knew he'd passed the first portion of the employment process. It was, after all, a sound plan and one he'd used several times before. However, the second part – the vetting process – could be trickier. He didn't volunteer any more information, but waited for them to ask the questions.

"Who do you work for?"

"I don't work for anyone." It held the indignation of the truth. In Neal's mind, he worked with Peter, not for him.

As black brows were drawn down in displeasure, he continued hastily. "I know what you mean, though. Let me explain." He would have raised his hands placatingly, but that luxury was denied him. "Six years ago, I...I put my trust in the wrong person, and he sold me out to the Feds. The only thing they actually could prove was bond forgery, but that was enough for a four-year prison sentence. Look, this is all a matter of public record, so you can check it out. I was near the end of my term when a Fed came to see me. Said he had enough information to put me away for four more years, but that he'd let me out on a tracking anklet if I'd agree to help him in key cases. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't stay in the lock-up any longer, I was going stir crazy. I've been trying to get out of my tracker ever since. This is the first time it's been taken it off. Take a look under the duct tape and you can see the marks it's left on my leg. They're unbreakable now, electronic, couldn't pick it or break it."

"So, you work for the Feds." Clearly, this wasn't a selling point for the art thieves, but he had known it would be impossible to conceal that fact and that it was better to have it out in the open under his own terms.

"I was forced to work for the Feds," he ground out with appropriate bitterness.

"That guy you were with – he was a Fed?"

"Yeah, he's the guy who caught me and put me away, then blackmailed me. I didn't think I'd ever be able to shake him off my tail, so I guess I owe you thanks for that."

"Then why did you come back for him?" The question was quiet but deadly, aimed with precision, and the atmosphere of the cabin suddenly crackled with tension.

"What?" Neal's surprise was genuine, because this accusation was the last thing he expected. "Look, I managed to get away from him, although I tried to make it look as if we were separated by accident. Then, I headed back here, because this was the best opportunity I've seen in a long time to put my skills to work." Unease lodged like a hard cube in the pit of his stomach turning to icy foreboding.

The Boss leaned forward, watching him intently as if he were a strange bug that had wandered under his microscope. "Then you won't be disturbed to learn that the agent is dead. We found him in a container and shot him."

The universe slithered sideways. As experienced a conman as he was, Neal was unable to keep his reaction to that off his face. Sour bile burnt in his throat as disbelief warred with horror and grief. The Boss had to be bluffing. The man was smart. He had to have realised that Peter, shot in the leg, would have had no other recourse but to hide in one of the metal boxes. Neal's mind couldn't help pushing that logic one step further. Having figured out that much, it wouldn't have been hard for the Boss to have isolated Peter's approximate location and conducted a container to container search until...

Neal could feel his hands shaking and clenched them into fists automatically, his mind supplying him with the image of Peter, unarmed and helpless on the floor, unable to do more than glare in defiance as the gunman fired. His eyes burned as the magnitude of his loss filled his chest until he could scarcely breathe, the corners of his vision wavering darkly.

"You don't look happy, Mr. Caffrey." The Boss's sharp voice cut through his frantic thoughts.

Neal was barely capable of rational intent, but some survival instinct, born of years of living by his wits with his livelihood depending on the right thing to say, found an appropriate explanation for his reaction. "Of course I'm not happy. This isn't what I wanted. My God, they'll think I'm responsible. How could you be so stupid as to kill an..."

His words sped up, spitting out of his lips as if impelled by the violence of his fragmenting thoughts. The force of a blow across the mouth snapped his head back, the heavy, gold ring on his assailant's hand splitting his lip in a bright red splatter of blood.

Neal dropped his chin, trying to wipe the blood off on his shirt while he gathered himself together, his teeth clenched hard enough to make his jaw muscles quiver. His voice was shot through with metal shavings though he steeled himself against the emotions that threatened his composure. "If they catch me again, I'll be on the hook for murder."

The look of suspicion faded, but didn't entirely disappear. "Then I suggest you don't let them catch you." They had little to lose by keeping him around on a trial basis, so mistrust didn't necessarily equate to a death sentence. There was, however, no doubt that Neal had miscalculated in his first attempt to win their confidence and a measure of autonomy, but he was too heartsick to really care.

The brothers were distracted from their analysis of his reliability by the arrival at their destination. The tape around Neal's legs was cut, and he was escorted off the boat by the two thugs who had originally captured him – Hans, who seemed to have the overwhelming preponderance of the brain power between the two, and Milo, the large muscular thug who had hit Neal before and who, judging by his actions, believed it was now open season on all captives.

Neal cast an incurious glance around, knowing it was necessary to pinpoint his location, but it was too dark to see much, and it merely earned him a blow to the ribs from Milo who was as eager as a puppy to show off the new trick he'd learned. It was still snowing, although not as heavily as before, but the clouds and general haze of precipitation concealed all familiar landmarks. His best guess was that they'd moved up the East River and were now in the Long Island Sound.

From the dock, it was only a matter of yards to another warehouse complex. They seemed to be the only ones inhabiting the frigid night, all law-abiding citizens having retreated to the warmth of their homes. Neal stumbled wearily as his two new coworkers ushered him downstairs to a small basement that was clearly used as a storage room, although it was currently empty of everything except a strong stench of fuel and other chemicals. There were no windows to provide an easy exit this time, and it was lit only by a solitary naked lightbulb that hung vaguely askew from the concrete ceiling.

Neal managed to keep to his feet as he was shoved inside with a stern warning. "There'll be a guard outside at all times. If you show as much as a nose outside without being invited, we'll shoot it off."

"Wait!" He called them back urgently just as they were about to leave. "Your bosses want me to do some delicate artwork for them. Leave me like this, and I'll be useless in the morning. My hands are already numb. Just check with them."

With an impatient glare, Hans went out into the corridor, presumably to follow this advice. Milo stayed, watching Neal longingly as if he were a soft punching bag hung up enticingly in front of him. At another time, Neal might have enjoyed subtly baiting him, with little verbal nips and pecks of annoyance, but now he just remained slumped against a wall, eyes fixed unwavering, but unseeing, on the floor.

Hans returned, a sour look corroding his face, probably at the prospect of Neal as a fellow employee. He grabbed Neal's shoulder, turning him and slamming him face first into the wall. Neal didn't react to the snick of a knife opening behind him, numb to external threats. He also ignored the uncomfortable tug on his skin as the knife pressed down on the tape. It was only as Hans ripped the tape off his prisoner's forearms, reopening the wounds left by the barbed wire that Neal uttered a surprised cry of pain.

The two men slammed the door shut, bolting it from the outside and, as a final act of cruelty, turned off the light at the switch in the corridor, leaving him in total darkness. However, the dark had always meant concealment to Neal, and now he welcomed the cover.

He swayed as tension, the exhaustion of strained emotions and too many hours without sleep caught up with him. His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, back against the wall, then curled forward, his arms wrapped around his knees as he shook with sorrow and loss, grief and guilt wrapping round his heart like a lead blanket.

Peter was dead. His mind bypassed its usual agile productivity, stuck on that anguished Mobius strip of thought. He had become all too familiar with that dragging weight of grief, worn deep ruts on that strip of highway. With Adler's death, he had received some closure for Kate's murder although, deep inside, her loss would always ache as a broken bone signals the approach of bad weather.

Mozz's shooting had been horrific, shocking in its unexpectedness and in the responsibility that he felt. Throughout it all, Peter had been a constant, supportive presence, reining him in when Neal's desire for revenge overcame common sense, even then protecting him from the consequences of his own actions. He knew how much he owed the agent for covering for him – goodness knows how Peter had managed that and how many favours he'd called in – when Neal's despair had fueled his gun-toting, Tarzan-swinging, all-round parole-breaking rampage.

He knew that no other FBI agent would have displayed the same patience, understanding, and forbearance, but Peter wasn't just his keeper, he was his friend, his partner and, as Mozzie had pointed out, something of a father-figure. In the last few weeks, as Mozzie had urged him more forcefully to grasp the future he'd always thought he'd wanted – ultimate freedom represented by almost limitless wealth – Neal had used almost any excuse to drag his feet, to postpone a decision. He had realised that Peter was holding out a competing vision of the future. It contained elements he'd previously considered extremely undesirable – early mornings, bad coffee, hard work, and legal restrictions. The compensations were complicated, nowhere near as straightforward as billions of dollars, but they were real. They involved teamwork, service and sacrifice. He was accustomed to being the best at what he did, but he'd never before received appreciation and plaudits for it. Now he knew he was making a real difference, saving lives and livelihoods. What he did mattered, and with Peter, it was never boring - except for the mortgage fraud cases.

It wasn't just the intangibles that Peter offered. He also offered permanence, a home and, most of all, a family. Elizabeth had once told him that Peter was the best thing that ever happened to him, and it was true. As he stared into the darkness, Neal blinked hard to clear the glaze of moisture from his eyes that no one would ever see. In that moment, he knew he'd hit rock bottom. He had finally made his choice, figured out what he wanted, and it was too late. He wanted his partner back, to bicker with, solve crimes with, match wits with.

He'd been told many times in his life that there were things he couldn't have, but he had never accepted that - stealing, charming or otherwise acquiring any desired objects. But now, he had to accept the fact that the thing he wanted most was forever out of his reach. All around him, skull-crushing silence forced itself down on his ears. He kept breathing fast, panic a hard vice around his chest. Peter had grounded him, provided him with a security he'd never known he wanted. Now, he felt untethered, a kite with its string cut, left to tumble and dive at the whim of the wind.

He couldn't bring Peter back, but he could take down the animals who'd killed him. Fury pounded through him, and he grasped it greedily, as it allowed him a few minutes reprieve from the hollowness of raw loss. He started to plan, weighing up different scenarios for destroying not only the Boss but his whole gang. It was hard to concentrate, and his mind kept falling back to its default setting of reckless grief until eventually, beyond exhaustion, he fell into a fitful sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Mozzie's hands were stuck deep in his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched defensively. He looked awkward and a little defiant, like a teenage miscreant expecting expulsion at the command of the principal. However, the thought of ejecting him from the room couldn't be further from Peter's mind. He'd never been so happy to see the man.

"Has he contacted you? Do you know where he is?" he blurted out, the urgency of desperation overruling professional pride or consideration for tactical advantage. He had no need to specify the antecedent for the pronoun 'he'. Neal was the glue that effectively cemented his uneasy alliance with the smaller man, and there was no other reason for Mozzie to be visiting an institution he hated.

Peter knew better than anyone that Neal was as slippery as a well-oiled eel, and if he'd slithered out of his captor's grasp, Mozzie was one of the first people he'd contact.

Mozzie's face scrunched slightly, the question clearly not to his liking, although it wasn't obvious if his disappointment was because he'd hoped for Peter to provide an answer to that query himself or because his secretive nature predisposed him to reject any intrusive questions. Another motive became apparent as the little man shuffled forward, one forefinger pressed to his mouth, and his right hand waving in a frantic quelling motion.

"Shhhhh. I'm already persona not grata here. If the Wicked Witch of the West discovers me here, she'll undoubtedly employ her flying monkeys to ensure my departure and foil any subsequent return. We have to be quiet."

Peter briefly entertained the vision of Mozzie suspended in the grasp of two red-capped simians, his feet peddling vainly in the air, then blinked it away. He wasn't sure which of the medical personnel had earned the soubriquet, but agreed that discovery was unwelcome. He lowered his voice.

"Your idea of visiting hours are rather unorthodox."

"He who let's time rule him will live the life of a slave," Mozzie pronounced truculently.

Peter was in no mood for a new round of 'guess that quote.' "Mozzie, just tell me. Has he been in touch?"

He read his answer in the other man's body language even before he received a small shake of the head as Mozzie seemed to shrink into himself, for all the world like a small, bald tortoise retracting his head and limbs into his shell.

"Oh," Peter uttered softly and, in unconscious imitation, he tucked himself into his blankets as the chill returned, disappointment welling up inside. Both men emotionally and mentally retreated as they contemplated their options.

"_They_ said," the emphasis on the first word lumped the elements of legality and oppression together, "that he's run, that with the anklet removed, he skipped out."

"He didn't," Peter said instantly, separating himself without a qualm from the fraternity of law enforcement. He truly believed that with every fibre of his being. Also, he needed Mozzie's cooperation, and he wouldn't get it without that distinction.

The declaration was louder than he intended, and both men looked towards the door guiltily, pausing to see if the noise had attracted attention from the nocturnal hospital authorities.

"He wouldn't run without telling me," Mozzie insisted fiercely. "He wouldn't be in this position if he had run. He told you this was too dangerous, but you made him do it anyway." His tone was twisted into an accusatory dagger stabbing at Peter's most vulnerable feelings.

Peter's throat ached with the hot press of words clogging up his mouth, but he didn't react to the criticism, partly because it was nothing he hadn't told himself. He recognised the truth in it. Neal _had_ voiced objections to the mission, and Peter had even agreed with them, but ultimately the agent, accustomed to the chain of command, had buckled to the pressure applied by his superiors. Once Peter was committed, Neal had raised no more protests.

"Ultimately, it's Neal's decision," Peter stated wearily with a veneer of defensiveness. "We both know he could find a way to run if he really wants to, tracker or no tracker."

"Your leash isn't the only thing fettering him, Suit."

Peter regarded him thoughtfully. Mozzie usually cloaked his inner self with pithy axioms and quotes. He remained something of a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. It was only when he had been tipsy that Peter had seen him expose anything of his true feelings, but right now, Mozzie was too angry, or probably too worried, to watch what he was saying and was revealing more than he intended.

It was easy to forget that Mozzie had been a mastermind of crime at a very young age, but Peter had never made the mistake of dismissing Mozzie as the twitchy sidekick he sometimes appeared to be. The agent knew that that unimposing appearance concealed a razor-sharp, if quirky, mind. He liked the man and enjoyed his offbeat sense of humour and original outlook on life. There were even times when he seemed to offer a stabilizing effect on Neal. However, on the whole, Peter believed that Mozzie's influence on Neal was negative. The little man made no bones about his complete contempt for the law, and his presence largely negated the benefits of the tracking anklet. Mozzie was ready, willing and able to perform any illegal acts that Neal wanted performed. Neal's protests of "I didn't do it," were usually code for "Mozzie did it."

It was sometimes hard to get away from the image of Peter and Mozzie playing tug of war over Neal, except that Neal couldn't be seen as a passive bone in the metaphor. It was a more Faustian scenario with he and Mozzie representing temptation and conscience (though they might dispute who epitomized the angel and who the devil). Peter had often felt that, in this battle for Neal's future, he held a weaker hand.

Mozzie and Neal spoke the same language and were fluent in its nuances and syntax. Peter felt like he was trying to teach Neal a new language that would place him in a more legitimate country, but Neal stuttered in its use. Neal himself had admitted to being hooked on the high of the con, and Peter was attempting to replace that heroin trip with the methadone of solving a case, and, at times, he wondered just how effective a substitute it was. But the stakes were too high for him to lose. His career was now on the line, but ultimately what motivated him was the profundity of his protective feelings for Neal. He wanted to harness the depth of potential he sensed was there. The thought of that brilliant, aggravating young man in jail again made him sick. He wasn't sure how far he'd go to prevent that from happening, but the line seemed to be moving into murkier territory all the time.

Yet, Mozzie's comment suggested he suffered from the same insecurities. Peter was positive that Neal knew more than he was admitting about the Nazi treasure, and he was afraid his friend was thinking of running, but the remark gave him hope.

Now wasn't the time to sort through such issues. "Mozzie, we both want what's best for Neal. Under normal circumstances, we may not agree on what that is, but right now we can. We have to find him and rescue him, and to do that we need to pool our resources and work together."

Mozzie inclined his head in agreement. "Under different circumstances, I might savor the plea for help, but the situation is too dire for such base gloating. Besides," he gave a smirk of amusement, "At the moment, working with the FBI 'suits' my purposes."

Peter ignored the pun, so Mozzie continued. "We are in accord. But there's one question I must ask, Suit. How far are you prepared to go to get him back?"

"As far as necessary, bar murder," Peter answered promptly. "Now sit down," he added irritably. "Your hovering is annoying." As Mozzie started to bristle at the order, the agent added a charming smile and the word 'please.'

Reconsidering his first impulse, the little man perched himself gingerly right at the edge of the uncomfortable plastic chair.

Peter drew the blankets tighter around himself, the tension that seized him at the thought of recounting recent events not helping the tremors that still occasionally seized his muscles. "Okay, total disclosure," he stated firmly.

"Total disclosure," Mozzie echoed solemnly. The corner of Peter's mouth quirked down involuntarily. It sounded too much like the 'no more secrets' pledge he'd shared with Neal, and look how well that had gone. However, he'd meant it when he said it, and he'd like to believe that Neal had too. Circumstances had made liars of them both, but on the whole, with the best of intentions of protecting each other.

However, the trust between him and Mozzie was exponentially more tenuous. They had to believe that the importance of their shared goal would compensate for that lack of faith.

Pausing only for frequent sips of water, Peter recounted the whole case as faithfully as he could, though heavy with detail on the gang and the artwork and less on the emotional aftermath of the shooting.

Mozzie listened intently to the story, although his gaze flickered erratically around the room as if searching for hidden listening devices. He asked some insightful questions and inserted some acerbic comments.

Peter felt wrung out by the time he'd finished, his body as tight as a well-tuned guitar string, quivering in high C. There was a faint hint of light outside and louder, more frequent, noises from the corridor. Mozz's nervous twitching increased in direct proportion to the probability of discovery, and Peter could feel him mentally slipping away. "Come on, Mozzie," he urged. "This is a two-way street. What do you have?"

"Life is a one-way street, and we are not coming back," Mozzie responded absently.

"What's that even supposed to mean? Damn it, Mozzie, this isn't a game. Neal's life is at stake here."

There was something softer in the small man's eyes as he gazed down at the frustrated agent. "Contrary to your immediate suspicions, I am not reneging on our deal. I just have little to offer in reciprocation right now. I was unaware of the gravity of the situation until June called to say that the marshals were tossing her place, behaving in a typically unwarranted and belligerent fashion."

Peter frowned unhappily. "Apologise to June for me. I told Hughes that..." He broke off at a noise outside his door. As the door was pushed open, he was peripherally aware of Mozzie disappearing from sight like a bald, bespectacled genie being sucked down into his bottle. He had an insane urge to giggle as the nurse bustled in, but he transmuted the impulse into as charming a smile as he could direct at the middle-aged woman. What did it say about his life post Neal Caffrey, that having a vertically challenged criminal genius hiding under his bed didn't rank in his top ten list of bizarre experiences.

"Mr. Burke, you're awake." The nurse stated the obvious. "Have you been having trouble sleeping?"

"Yes..No, no, not at all," he hastily corrected himself, remembering the need for medical approval for his dismissal from the hospital. "I slept like a ...deeply and well. I'm just used to waking up early, getting a good start on the day you know."

It was difficult to concentrate on what he was supposed to say as she prepared a large syringe. "The early bird catches the worm, you know."

He could practically feel Mozzie rolling his eyes underneath him, miniature whirlpools sucking down his verbal dexterity, so he added with some verve. "Or catch those criminal types who believe they can scoff at the law."

He wasn't sure if he imagined the snort emanating from the floor, but it made him smile sweetly, and the nurse started to look flustered at his attention. "I need to take some blood," she explained apologetically and somewhat unnecessarily. "We need to do some final tests."

Peter was not fond of needles, but neither did he regard them with great disfavour. However, he felt oddly exposed with Mozzie under the bed. He didn't think x-ray vision was one of the little man's superhuman talents, but neither would he put it past him to have some Russian surplus creepy spy device tucked away in a pocket.

"That's no problem, Nurse..." he quickly scoped out her ID label, "Nurse Carter, but I don't suppose you could get me..." He cast around for some plausible excuse to send her out of the room to give him the chance to send Mozzie packing. It occurred to him that juice or iced water might not be on the approved list for a patient recovering from hypothermia. "...something warm to drink?" he finished lamely.

"Weak, Suit, weak." He was fairly sure that Mozz's commentary was in his head rather than his ears.

"Of course, sweetie, just let me take your blood first."

Peter submitted with resignation, heroically not voicing an opinion on the wisdom of removing several test tubes of blood from a man who had been admitted for blood loss, among other things.

As she disappeared on her errand, Mozzie rematerialised beside the bed, swiping flecks of dust from his jacket. "I'll let you know what I discover," he said hastily as he shuffled towards the door.

"Wait! I need a way to contact you. Hopefully I'll have more information after I've talked with Diana."

"Way ahead of you. I've set up a phone just for you. Call me if you hear anything."

"That's good." Peter relaxed back against the pillows only to jerk back up again. "What's the number?"

Mozzie looked back with a smirk. "You're the Suit. You figure it out." Then he vibrated out of the room.

Peter slumped back again. "Great, another puzzle. Just what I need." However, as soon as his mind started worrying at the problem, his knowledge of the little man's quirky humour provided the probable solution. Mozzie had said it himself - 'You're the Suit.' Reaching for the phone, Peter quickly punched out 843 7848 T.H.E.S.U.I.T.

It was answered instantly. "Very good, Suit. But now you've left a record on the phone. Restrict calls to emergencies next time."

There was a click as he rang off, and Peter realised he was smiling. Mozzie had provided an effective distraction from his fears for Neal. Now he felt much more optimistic. Between himself and Mozzie and their divergent resources, they would find their missing friend.

He closed his eyes, and by the time Nurse Carter returned with some hot chocolate, she was disappointed to find that her new favourite patient was fast asleep.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Elizabeth was surprised, but happy, to see her husband asleep when she entered his room just before lunch. However, it took only a quick glance of a conjugal eye to see that it wasn't a restful sleep. He was turned slightly toward her, curled on his side as far as his injured leg would allow. His right hand was furled into a loose fist near his face as if for protection, and frown lines furrowing his forehead showed that he was worrying about something that reached down into his dreams.

She reached out to smooth those creases with her fingers, but withdrew them at the last minute, preferring not to chance waking him up. She defeated that object by sitting down heavily in the chair next to his bed, which creaked alarmingly. Peter's eyes shot open, reinforcing her suspicions that his sleep was more troubled than restful. However, his face lost that strained aspect and lit up when he saw her. Even after more than a decade of marriage, she never tired of that soft expression on his face that was reserved entirely for her.

"Hi, Hon," he croaked, dehydration still clearly a problem. She leaned forward to drop a gentle kiss on his waiting lips and echoed his words.

"Hi, Hon. I brought all the stuff you wanted from home. Have you had official word about your release yet?"

"I'm still waiting for the doctor to give his despotic approval. I must have fallen asleep waiting for him, but punctuality doesn't seem to be a hospital attribute."

"Right," she teased him gently. "He's probably off doing something trivial like saving someone's life."

"Playing golf more likely," Peter retorted grumpily.

"In a foot of snow? That would make for an interesting game."

"I'd forgotten about the snow." Peter glanced worriedly toward the window, but even if the blinds had been open, it would have afforded him nothing but a mundane glimpse of the office building opposite. "It's not good weather to be outside in, is it?" he murmured quietly.

Elizabeth was fairly sure he wasn't referring to his own recent narrow escape from the elements, and she decided to change the subject. "Did you sleep okay last night?" She knew immediately by the shift of his gaze that his answer would be at best evasive. He almost never outright lied, but would prevaricate to spare her worry or to avoid hurting her feelings.

"You know how hospitals are. I slept just fine when left to my own devices." Reading her skepticism in a raised eyebrow, he squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I just got an earlier start than I planned. Mozzie popped by, then I was working with Diana on the identifications."

"Any leads on finding Neal?"

The frown returned as if permanently eroded there. "Not really. I was able to ID a couple of the lower-level thugs for hire, but I don't think I even saw the leaders. We'll follow up on the men I picked out. Maybe they'll lead us further up the chain, but it's not promising."

This time, she did reach out to smooth a finger along the forehead, following it up with a verbal balm. "You'll find him, Hon. It's what you do, right? Just switch on that old Neal Caffrey locator beacon."

She was rewarded with a look of determination. "I'll find him. But I swear, when I do, I'm going to force-feed him a tracking device. The removable anklet just isn't working for me."

She giggled. "I'll hide it in my bruschetta. No force feeding necessary."

"No, it's too temporary. I'll hide it in his tie pin."

"His watch."

"No, something he can't remove. I'll put it in a tooth filling."

"Hmm. The FBI's technology department must have improved for you to pull that one off."

The entrance of a doctor interrupted their conversation, and El excused herself and went for a cup of coffee. Despite the recent levity, she caught the undercurrents of veracity underneath the jokes. She was very fond of Neal, but there were times she wished her husband had never accepted his case so many years ago.

Despite how frustrated, even infuriated, the young conman could make him, Peter was inextricably invested in Neal's future, and the result was both men walking the fine line of Neal's good intentions. If Neal slipped and fell into the recidivist bandwagon, Peter would be forced into an untenable position. She knew it would break something in him. He would be attempting to balance his fiercely protective feelings for his young partner and his equally strongly held moral code. It was a juggling act of calamitous proportions, throwing up a Sisyphean rock with a Damoclean sword and not knowing which would fall first. Even El, who knew her husband so well, could not predict what he'd do if Neal ran.

If Peter excused himself from the case, they would never see Neal again and would be left wondering if he had taken one risk too many or if some less-than-sympathetic lawman had him literally in his sights. Yet, if Peter acted like an agent rather than a friend and chased Neal once again, the act carried overtones of betrayal and conflict of interest. Elizabeth couldn't bear the thought of Neal in jail again, and it was almost certainly worse for Peter.

As messy and painful as all those scenarios were, the current situation held the potential for something worse. If Neal died working on one of Peter's cases, her husband would never forgive himself. He protected all of his team as if they were family, but Neal fell into a special category. Elizabeth knew that whatever medical advice he was receiving right now, Peter would spare himself nothing in his effort to prevent that from happening, and she would have to support him on every inch of that long, hard journey. She took a deep swallow of the coffee, which was scalding hot if not actually flavorful, in an effort to fortify herself for the upcoming ordeal.

When she returned to Peter's room, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands locked into a fist between his knees and his back bowed slightly as he gently swung his injured leg. He was dressed, albeit untidily, in the loose clothes she'd brought from home.

Peter looked up with a reassuring smile as he sensed her there. "Everything is looking good, so I can go home."

She concealed her doubts about this change of venue. "That's wonderful. Satch and I have missed you."

However, it took another two hours before the paperwork was completed, medications issued, and all the paraphernalia needed for mobility gathered together. Peter wasn't supposed to be weight-bearing yet on his injured leg, so he was provided with a wheelchair and, later, a pair of crutches when the impracticalities of the former mode of mobility in their house were pointed out.

The ride home was quiet. Peter sat, moodily observing the plowed piles of grimy snow, his mind obviously occupied. He occasionally remembered to make a desultory comment, but then lapsed back into silence. El understood his preoccupation and wasn't offended by the lack of attention. She concentrated on driving slowly and safely in the still-icy conditions and made no attempt to start a conversation. Relief pulled a long sigh from her as she pulled into a parking space right next to their home.

"Did I tell you that Jones came out and shoveled the sidewalk and cleared the steps?"

Peter got that slightly surprised but pleased expression that crossed his face whenever a member of his team showed how much they appreciated him. "That's really kind. I must remember to thank him."

Getting Peter up the steps and into the house was more of an ordeal. He didn't utter a sound of complaint, but there was a sheen of sweat on his face, despite the chill of the air, by the time he collapsed onto the sofa, using the crutch as a means of fending off an ecstatic Satchmo. El dragged the dog off, relieved to have something constructive to do, since the sight of Peter sitting there on the sofa, indisputably home, had brought a prickle of tears to her eyes, and she knew how much he hated to see her cry. She had an impulse to lock the doors, pull down the blinds, and shut out the outside world completely and permanently, but satisfied herself with pushing Satchmo into the kitchen. As she returned, she found Peter regarding her intently.

He patted the cushions next to him invitingly, and she snuggled up to his good side gratefully, allowing his warm presence to smooth and fill the cracks left by the uncertainty and anxiety of his disappearance and injury. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, he placed a forefinger under her chin to gently tilt her face up towards his, staring into her eyes with affection and concern.

"It's been a lousy couple of days, huh?" he said ruefully.

She struggled again to prevent the tears that formed insistently in her eyes from falling. "Pretty lousy," she confirmed in a whisper.

"I'm so sorry, Hon." He pressed a kiss into her forehead, since her lips were out of reach without some contortion.

"Try not to do it again," she suggested with a waver in her voice.

"That's a promise." His voice was husky, and he paused before continuing, "Knowing I have you to come home to...it made a difference, you know." It didn't convey exactly what he wanted to say, but he knew she would understand his meaning.

Their quiet reconnection was interrupted by the doorbell. Elizabeth untucked herself reluctantly from her husband's side to answer the door, and Diana entered, staggering slightly under the weight of a large box. "Here's the paperwork you wanted, Boss. There's more in the car."

She placed the container carefully within Peter's reach, then disappeared back outside to return with a twin of the previous box.

"Anything on Chomsky and Perivitch?" he asked eagerly.

"Nothing as yet. Neither has been seen recently by friends or family, or so they claim, but we'll stay on it." She pulled off the top of the second box and passed him a laptop with a flourish.

"That's great, Diana. Thanks." Peter shot his wife an apologetic glance, but she kept a smile firmly in place.

"Neal Caffrey locator beacon in action. Go get him!"

Apart from bringing out a soft chair to prop his leg up on, she left her husband to his work. Diana didn't stay for long, and Elizabeth worked in the kitchen to prepare a healthy, but not too heavy, dinner, listening to the faint rustle of paper and clicks on the keyboard. When she emerged, over an hour later, bearing chicken pot pie and mashed potatoes, the papers were being reorganised into distinct piles. Peter offered her a distracted smile as she looked in vain for a place to set the tray of food, but the archipelagos of files defeated her.

Peter hastily moved the papers on his lap to the floor and held out his hands for the tray. "Thanks, Hon."

She fetched her own food and gingerly pulled up a chair to the edge of the chaos. "Can I help with anything?" she offered.

He passed his hand wearily over his face. "I appreciate the offer, but at the moment, I don't even know what I'm looking for."

She merely looked at him encouragingly, so he continued. "The only clue I have as to who's holding Neal is the shipping container yard where they found me. It was owned by a shell corporation, so there's nothing to link it to any possible current location. However, they left in a hurry, and they must have another hideaway in which they've gone to ground. It was a big organisation, they can't just tuck into a house in the suburbs, so there must be a paper trail to that property. I'm trying to find that place by some commonality with the original yard. It might be an accountant's signature, a real estate agent, an employee, hell, even a barber on an expense account, I just need to recognise some connection in the paperwork."

"Wow!" Elizabeth was somewhat taken aback by the sheer breadth of what he was attempting. "That's..."

"A needle in a haystack," he finished for her grimly. "I know, but since I can't be out in the field at the moment..." A frustration she rarely saw in him twisted each word into a knot of bitterness.

"I know you hate feeling like you've been sidelined, but you know they're good agents – Jones, Diana, Hughes. They can hold their end up. It doesn't always have to be you."

"This time it does," he told her with the force of conviction. "Neal is my friend, my partner, my...responsibility. He signed on to be a consultant, not to be dodging bullets in the field. But he's Neal Caffrey - when they were handing out common sense, he stood in line for an extra helping of sheer bloody-mindedness."

"Hon, Neal's a survivor. He's not going to do anything stupid."

He looked at her with incredulity. "He's Neal. Of course he's going to do something stupid, and I have to be there, because I'm the one who'll recognise it. Yes, they're good, but they don't know Neal the way I do. He's counting on me. At some point, he'll send up an SOS, and I need to be there to recognise it."

Elizabeth wanted to protest the pressure he was inflicting on himself, but she knew her husband too well to believe that anything she said would affect that sense of responsibility. "Okay, well, we need to take care of your leg, so you can get back in the field as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, there has to be something I can do to help."

"An extra pair of eyes couldn't hurt." Peter scribbled some names down on a pad of paper, tore the top sheet off and gave it to her along with a thick sheaf of papers. "Go through these and check for any mention of these names."

Peter continued to drive himself at a relentless pace for the rest of the evening, and El realised that he was only taking over-the-counter pain pills for his leg, but he explained that the prescription clouded his mind, and that as long as he wasn't moving, the pain was negligible. She wasn't sure she believed that, but understood that any further restrictions on his ability to work would be intolerable to him.

It was after midnight, and she was yawning and idly contemplating drugging his drink, when there was another knock at the door – a strange pattern of raps and pauses. Peter brightened instantly. "It's Mozzie. Let him in."

She raised an eyebrow. "You have secret signals with Mozzie now?"

"No, but who else would tap out the letters SUIT on my door?"

The little man sidled in with a genuine smile of affection for Elizabeth and a quick pat on the head for Satchmo, who had roused himself from sleep to welcome the visitor. El pulled on a warm jacket and retrieved the dog's leash. "I'm going to take the dog out for a last watering expedition." As she passed Mozzie, she whispered. "He's exhausted, please don't let him overdo it."

Mozzie looked at the mess of papers – contracts, maps, deeds – with a little condescension. "It looks like Google threw up in the middle of a search."

"Mozzie, do you have anything?" Peter's patience had worn down to a fraying thread.

"Nothing...definitive. However, I come bearing good news and bad news."

"I'm not in the mood for guessing games. Just tell me everything."

Mozzie picked the seat El had vacated as the only possible place to sit. "The good news is that, as of 24 hours ago, Neal was almost certainly alive. I received a prearranged signal from him."

"Oh, thank God." Peter closed his eyes and took in what felt like the first unimpeded breath since he'd woken in the hospital. The possibility that Neal might be dead and any effort he put in to find him futile had weighed on him like a crushing boulder sitting on his chest. He took a brief second to savour the relief before snapping out, "Explain. Can we use it to find him?"

Mozzie shook his head reluctantly. "I believe not. Neal activated a long prearranged SOS by placing a specific and unusual order for paint with a mutual friend. However, the order was paid in cash and picked up in person and not by Neal."

"Give me all the details. I'll pass it on to Diana. Maybe the customer was picked up on camera and we can trace his route." He paused and tried to maintain a clinical distance as he asked, "What's the bad news?"

"We are not the only ones looking for this group. It appears that the artwork was originally stolen by a group of terrorists looking for a two-for-one strike of punishing the Emir for his pro-western stance and funding their activities here in the United States. Lacking the contacts to sell the purloined goods, they sought a sympathetic middle man here and decided that the Russian mob would be an appropriate ally in their anti-American stance. They chose unwisely, since the mob boss they selected is chiefly interested in profit, and acts of terrorism would merely interrupt his ...commercial activities. Having been swindled out of their ill-gotten gains, the terrorists are now searching for the mobster to either retrieve their artwork or exact their revenge."

Peter felt all the blood draining to his feet. Certainly his brain felt starved of oxygen. All coherent thought scattered to the far corners of his mind. He wanted to get up and pace, needing the physical rhythm of movement to kickstart his mind. "This isn't bad news. This is a disaster of titanic proportions. This was supposed to be a simple art recovery. Now, not only do we have the Mob involved, we have terrorists."

Released from the grip of horrified paralysis, his mind started scrabbling, trying to find the best way to proceed. "I should get Organised Crime and the Terrorism Unit in on this, but we already have the Marshalls involved. The last thing we need is to lose this case in an interdepartmental battle. I don't want Neal to get shot by an overeager agent from some other department."

Mozzie was sitting still and tense, his worry for his friend showing in the nervous tic of his fingers and the widened circumference of his eyes behind the thick glasses. His silence reminded Peter that the little man was not used to being on this side of an operation. The broad creative strokes of conceiving a caper might be very different, but Mozzie would never have stayed off the FBI's radar if he wasn't also good at the minutia - thinking of every way to cover his tracks and remain undetected. He might be the heads to Peter's tails, but it was still the same coin.

"Can you use your mob connections to get us a name? To narrow in on this gang, we need something more specific."

Mozzie threw up his hands in frustration. "Because the mob is just one big happy family. Like the Detroit Mob invites the Russians over for a soiree on a regular basis."

"No, but I bet they keep tabs on them, and they have avenues of information that the FBI doesn't. Can you do it?"

"I'll have to call in some favors, but I can try." Mozzie subsided, his brief burst of indignation over.

Peter's mind was now clicking over rapidly. "Also, if they're forcing Neal to work for them, he may have ordered more art supplies. Can you make enquiries at any other suppliers that the two of you frequent?"

"I'm way ahead of you, Suit. I already have some feelers out."

"Good, that's good," Peter praised him absently. "Look you have an eidetic memory, right? Why don't you have a look at what I've got so far and see if anything rings a bell."

They were pouring over the paperwork when El returned with a shivering, damp dog. She didn't interrupt them, but dried off Satchmo before making up a bed on an inflatable mattress on the floor for Peter. They had agreed it would be easier on his leg if he didn't have to make the journey up and down the stairs. She had also reluctantly accepted the wisdom of them sleeping apart while his leg was in the early stages of healing. After exchanging good nights with Mozzie and a kiss with Peter, she left them to it. Pausing at the stairs to look back, she watched her husband for a long moment, taking in the stiffness in his spine, the tension radiating from him. With a deep sigh, she continued to bed. Sleep was a long time coming.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Thank you so much to anyone who has left a review. If you signed in, I have probably written back to you. If I haven't, that's a mistake and I apologise. I really appreciate the feedback and the support. I also ask for your indulgence as we wrap up this story. I've been trying to post every Monday and Thursday. However, school has started up, and life has become hectic. My wonderful beta was editing this at a ridiculous hour last night, and I was trying to insert all my missing commas in the midst of many other activities. This story is completed, but please be understanding if I don't post on schedule in the next two weeks. Thank you.

Sidelined Ch 8

Neal had lost track of time, but he estimated that it was well into the afternoon the next day when the light was switched on and two different members of the Boss's gang entered. They treated him impersonally, not as a co-worker, but not as a threat either, escorting him to a bathroom and allowing him some privacy there.

Neal gazed at himself in the mirror, or what he could see through the grime and stains marring the surface of the glass, and hardly recognised himself. Grey shadows haunted a face taut with lack of sleep and nightmares that still lingered. He sucked in a deep breath, needing to steady himself. He had played many parts in his career as a conman, was experienced at playing a role, but this would be one of hardest, and to succeed he had to compartmentalise his feelings and become the criminal he was pretending to be. He must bury his rage and grief at Peter's death, the guilt at leaving him there to die, and focus. He couldn't allow his mask to slip again.

He grabbed both sides of the basin tightly, knuckles turning white as he tried to loosen the twisted knot of loss that had taken up residence in his gut, threatening to expel its meagre contents. If anything, the tangled lump merely constricted. He took more deep breaths, but they only made him light-headed, and the smile he practiced tightened to a ghoulish rictus. He wanted to recover the snarled razor-wire anger from the night before, using it to conceal, or at least protect, his bone-deep sense of loss, wrapping it in his own personal no-trespassing sign.

He thought it was lucky that no one here knew him and expected carefree, charming Caffrey. Quiet, sullen Caffrey would probably fit in better with the mobster mentality that ruled here, and it wouldn't be a great effort to project that persona.

An impatient knock on the door reminded him that his time of privacy was limited. "Yeah, I'm coming," he shouted back, quickly splashing some water on his hair and slicking it back.

His next stop was a break room, sparsely furnished with a large table, a coffee machine, and a TV. Decoration consisted mostly of a variety of papers - including work schedules and safety regulations - taped to the wall and one calendar of scantily dressed women. Neal was fed a generic breakfast pastry of which he managed to choke down one mouthful before his stomach lurched, and he deposited the bulk of it surreptitiously in a trash can.

The rest of the Boss's men had caught up with them, having presumably traveled by an overland route. They were heavily armed and gave the building the impression of being a military compound rather than a thieves' hang out. They showed little interest in him, but a sense of wariness abounded, an almost siege-like mentality. Maybe it was a precaution against a possible incursion by the FBI, but it seemed as if an attack of some sort was expected. Neal's normal teeming curiosity was in abeyance, not that he thought that any questions he asked would be welcomed anyway, but although he asked no questions, habits were hard to break, so he made a mental note of what little he could see of guard practices and patterns through the window of the break room.

He wasn't sitting idle for long before he was called into the Boss's office. It was furnished sparsely, lacking any but the most basic necessities, seeming to indicate it was a temporary base. Incongruously, amidst the plastic furniture sat a cheerful red poinsettia.

"Neal Caffrey." The big Russian gestured expansively, standing up as the CI entered. "Your reputation in the right circles is impressive. I had no idea we were entertaining a celebrity."

It was hard to smile at someone in a flattered, but modest, way when you wanted to beat his face to a pulp. "Fame, or notoriety, isn't a good thing in my line of business. I need to be more careful of the career steps I take." His smile refused to stretch round his clenched teeth, and he realised he was failing again in his attempt at affability. This wasn't like him. A good conman could feign any emotion, regardless of personal involvement.

The only other time he remembered failing this badly at concealing his feelings was when he had half-convinced himself that Peter was the 'man with the ring.' His feelings of betrayal and anger had been strong enough for Peter to pick up that something was wrong. He had been unable to quell the bubble of accusation that welled up inside, allowing it to explode at an inappropriate time, needing to have his suspicions confirmed or denied. Peter had never held that accusation against him, dismissing it with an easy smile.

Memories were popping up like alert prairie dogs, and he mentally played whack-a-mole to enable himself to concentrate on the Boss's negotiations. He pretended great affront at the opening bid of ten percent of the profits on his forgeries, and countered with fifty. He was fairly sure that the Russian intended to kill him as soon as his services were no longer needed, and Neal had every intention of seeing the other man dead or in jail, so it was hard to take the bargaining seriously, but ultimately they settled amicably on twenty-five percent.

The Boss leaned back in his chair, which creaked alarmingly at this courageous maneuver. "Give me a list of the supplies you will need, and my men will get them for you."

Neal stared at him incredulously. The walls he'd constructed around his grief were tested with each moment he spent with this man, and the emotions that wrenched loose became warped and distorted, trying to escape as spitting, sizzling anger. He bit them back into manageable irritation. "You can't just pop down to your local Staples for the things I'm going to need! I'll know the precise specifications after I've examined the artwork and we've decided which pieces you want me to copy. I'll need exactly the right canvas, paint, oil and brushes just for starters, or you might as well photocopy the painting and try to pass it off as the original."

Neal's tone wasn't conciliatory, but the Boss seemed to accept it as the eccentricity of an artist. "We can get what you need. Just give us the address of your supplier."

"We also need to spread our purchases out among several different sources, or it'll be obvious what we're trying to do and will send up a red flag to Art Crimes units throughout the country."

The criminals seemed gratifyingly ignorant on matters pertaining to art forgery and the art world in general, which made Neal wonder why they had entered this line of business. It was certainly going to make his life easier. An order of Procrustean Pyrozolone Red from a certain supplier was a long-established SOS signal to Mozz. It was a convoluted signal for help, but with Neal missing, Mozz was more likely to check there, and if he did, he could hopefully get the FBI to check the address from which it was ordered. The prospect of contact, however nebulous, with his friends renewed a sense of purpose in Neal, but it toppled like a house of cards built by uncertain hands at the mobster's next casual comment as the Boss looked at him with grudging respect.

"I can see why your former employers are so reluctant to let you go, or to see your services and skills up for grabs."

At Neal's slight frown of puzzled enquiry he elaborated. "According to my sources in law enforcement, the FBI put an APB out on you last night."

That explained in part the mobster's change of heart concerning Neal's motives. Neal's laugh, brittle and bitter, was unfeigned. "Yeah, dogs in the manger. Let's go and see that artwork, shall we?"

The Boss was impressed with Neal's rapt, exhaustive examination of the paintings, but in truth, Neal hardly noticed the exquisite beauty in front of him, his mind absorbed by the ramifications of the revelation. Hughes and the team must have found Peter's body. The problem with having an empathic mind and an extremely visual imagination was that it meant he could picture the scene vividly. His mind recoiled in renewed grief. It was lucky that the Boss received an urgent phone call and left him to his inventory with only a bored escort at the door for company, because sooner or later, Neal's preoccupation would have become obvious.

Did the FBI truly believe that he was somehow involved in Peter's death? Jones would give him the benefit of the doubt, but Diana probably wouldn't if she had any suspicion he had betrayed her beloved boss. Hughes could be trusted to follow the evidence without too many preconceptions, but the primary loyalty of the whole team was to Peter. With a dull throb of despair, Neal realised that there was nothing sinister about the issuance of the alert, it just meant that, with Peter gone, there was nobody senior enough willing to hold his leash, and it was a standard move to return him to jail. Peter had often joked about sending him back to the slammer, but the threat had lost its meaning a long time ago, certainly by the time Peter had yanked him out of prison after the plane exploded.

At that point, Peter had staked his career, applying the full force of his reputation, connections and authority to pry Neal loose. In doing so, he'd linked their fortunes irrevocably together – that was another reason Neal had evaded Mozz's urging to run. It would destroy Peter's career, and that would destroy Peter. It was simple with hindsight.

Either way, Neal's time at the FBI was clearly at an end - not that he would have chosen to continue without Peter anyway. It was their partnership that had made it fun and fulfilling – their brains meshing, challenging each other, pooling their different skill sets to form a team greater than its individual components.

However, his departure from the ranks of the White Collar unit left him with a dilemma. Neal had no doubt that he could con the Boss out of all his money, perhaps even engineer his death, but that wasn't sufficient. He wanted the whole gang brought to justice for Peter's murder and, for that, he needed the FBI. That meant accepting he would be spending at least another 18 months in jail.

He expected to feel the familiar crushing sense of claustrophobia that the thought of a prison cell usually generated, but it was strangely absent, any possible location for it filled to capacity with determination and vengeance. Mozzie might make scathing remarks about martyrdom, but he owed Peter at least that much.

His decision was made. He completed the list of materials he would need and the names of the sources he recommended, and delivered it to the Boss before returning to the storage room to study the brushwork of the de Kooning he intended to copy first.

His supplies arrived by overnight delivery, and he set to work. Painting had always been an escape for him, as he lost himself in the colours and textures, and he welcomed that distraction now. He'd commandeered a room with good light, and spent little time associating with the other men. It bolstered his reputation as morose and reserved. The Boss and Blackbeard dropped by occasionally to stare avariciously at his creations, but they didn't often engage him in conversation.

He capitalised on their ignorance of art and on his solitude to sabotage his forgeries in ways that would be undetectable to any but the most expert eye, and even then only with the aid of technology. On the first canvas, he had sketched a remarkably good likeness of the Boss in white lead paint, before covering it with the actual painting. The pentimento would show up in glorious identifying detail under X-ray.

The next forgery had steganography embedded in minute discrepancies of contour lines. These conveyed a message in phonetic symbols that gave the location of the warehouse as best he could estimate. At times, Neal wondered if he was doing the visual equivalent of yelling into the ether, that all these clever clues to attract attention were futile. They might be breadcrumbs that would lead a knowledgeable tracker to the right conclusions, but which experts would see them? In the past, he could count on Peter's ability to find him, whether that was a desired outcome or not, but now Peter was...gone. Neal was trusting that Mozzie would be on the alert for anything that might betray his location.

Yet each brush stroke that varied from the original, that trespassed into forbidden territory was a blow struck in rebellion, a subtle undermining of the Boss's position. It satisfied only the most patient element of Neal's desire for revenge, a portion too small to come close to quenching the fire that threatened to consume him.

The shock and disbelief that had earlier cushioned the severity of the impact of grief and guilt had soon dissipated, leaving pain sharpened to a deadly point by loss and burnished by guilt. He struggled to contain it, to confine it to acceptable parameters, but the cost each day of watching Peter's murderer walk free burnt a hole deeper in his soul.

Each time the Boss strayed into his line of sight, Neal fantasized about grabbing a weapon from one of the mobster's men and starting to fire. Occasionally, the image was so vivid, he thought he'd actually done it. If he was honest with himself, it wasn't his hatred of violence and guns that was preventing him. It wasn't even the whisper in his head, in what sounded like Peter's voice, that said he wasn't a murderer. It was pragmatism. He almost certainly wouldn't succeed, and sacrificing his life in a failed attempt at retaliation was not in his game plan. At least, not yet.

He wasn't coming under any additional scrutiny, but the guards were just too alert and well-armed for his amateur ninja moves. Despite his preoccupation with the art, he had become aware of the tension mounting in the building. More sentries were being placed around the perimeter, and Blackbeard's temper grew shorter, as did his brother's visits.

Neal had caught snippets of conversation between men in the break room, but most of it was in Russian, which proved unenlightening. However, one word that had been mentioned several times appeared to transcend linguistic differences - 'terrorist.' In Russian, as in Spanish, French and Italian, it sounded much the same. He had no idea why such trepidation existed, but the atmosphere of unease deepened, and the preparations and fortifications for a possible attack by unknown assailants intensified.

On the fourth day at the warehouse, Neal was working on inducing craquelure on the most recent forgery with his own patented chemical compound when he vaguely became aware of increased activity outside - pounding feet and urgent shouting. He darted to the window. Most of the light in the room came through two basic skylights, which offered him only an uninformative view of the clouds, but there was also a narrow pane of glass facing the docks, and with his face smushed against it, Neal could just make out a blurred view of armed men running to take up strategic positions around the area, like army ants scurrying to defend their territory in the snow.

Heavy footsteps approached his room, and he quickly returned to his canvas before his position betrayed his curiosity. Blackbeard burst into the room, accompanied by half a dozen thugs, and Neal involuntarily took a step backwards, intimidated by the sheer momentum of the intrusion. He allowed his natural trepidation to show. "What's going on? It sounds like you're preparing for World War Three out there."

"We're leaving," the mobster informed him curtly. He turned to his men. "Get this stuff packed up quickly."

"Wait,"Neal objected, standing in front of his creation. "I can't just stop in the middle of a forgery. The change in lighting and shading would create flaws."

"You'll just have to start from the beginning again. We're leaving now."

"I'm not just..."

In one swift move, Blackbeard had a gun leveled at his head, the muzzle resting between his eyes. It was a sensation that didn't grow more comfortable with repetition. "Either you leave with us now, alive, or you stay here, dead."

Neal pulled the corners of his mouth up in a smile that was patently fake. "I'll choose door number one."

"Good...choice." Blackbeard tapped the muzzle of the gun on Neal's forehead as emphasis for each word. He grabbed Neal's shirt with his empty hand to yank him forward, then pushed him towards the stairs.

Neal made no physical attempt at resistance, but verbally protested every step of the way. "How am I supposed to be a good team player when I don't have any idea what is going on?"

They clattered down a few more steps. "I'm sure I can help given the chance."

Peter always said he had annoyance down to an art form. The sudden memory hit like an unexpected blow to the guts, and it caused a stutter in his stride that nearly sent him tumbling down the stairs. Ironically, it was Blackbeard's grip on him that prevented the slip. As if that action created a tenuous connection between them, the mobster finally grudgingly answered. "Let's just say that we're not the only ones with an interest in this artwork."

He seemed to regret his impulse to share, and to compensate, he shoved Neal down the last two stairs. Neal hardly noticed, too busy absorbing the implications of that small revelation. Who could scare the Russian mob? Maybe this crew was a splinter group, and it was the main Russian mob that had them running scared. Either way, it was intriguing to speculate on who could have that group of hard-bitten desperadoes so frantic.

The atmosphere of taut urgency sparked a matching tension in Neal, a dark excitement, a heady mixture of hatred and vengeance that had been simmering, barely contained beneath the surface and that now broke free at the prospect of action. The air was electric with anticipation. Neal's eyes roved unceasingly, cataloging the movements and firepower around him, and each glimpse of frantic packing, upraised guns and tense expressions behind them sparked a new rush of adrenaline that made his extremities tingle with expectancy and that lodged in an unwieldy block in his stomach. His muscles burned with the need to act, whether it was running or fighting, a nervous energy that expressed itself in light bobs of movement, muscles bunching in hungry anticipation. Blackbeard's pushes were just to guide him now; he didn't need propelling along their path.

Only one of the metal doors to the warehouse was thrown open and Blackbeard strode up behind the four men crouching in its shadows, eyes scanning the territory outside. He asked one man a question, but the rapid tripping of consonants in response remained a mystery to Neal. It seemed to satisfy the mobster, who gave a curt nod of acknowledgment.

The yard outside was nothing like the one they had left several days earlier. There were none of the big metal containers and only a few piles of large wooden boxes down by the docks. A row of trucks was lined up alongside the warehouses, but beyond them was a long, empty concrete expanse, a no-man's land void of either obstacle or shelter. A path had been plowed from the entrance, guarded by a cast-iron gate, but most of the area was still covered by at least six inches of snow. Making a wide peripheral sweep around the large yard was a stone wall - old, but still sturdy, and reaching to a respectable height along most of its extent. All eyes and firepower were directed along its length and, seen as the only bulwark against a hostile force, it suddenly appeared flimsy.

It was clear that the Boss's forces were intended to cover a retreat via the waterfront, where four boats bobbed on the late morning tide. Their serene movements were an odd contrast to the tense, sharp agitation of humanity in the foreground.

Sudden footsteps behind signaled the approach of the Boss carrying two hefty duffle bags, one of which he threw for his brother to catch, then he joined their ranks, peering warily outside. There was no sign of movement along the wall, which remained innocuously empty and inviting, but Neal knew that he wasn't the only one who sensed an inimical presence - a predator waiting to pounce on its prey.

He measured the distance to the docks and had to hide the resulting smirk of satisfaction. The Boss's eyes followed a similar trajectory and seemed to reach a similar conclusion albeit with a different reaction. He tapped one of his men on the shoulder, and with an unmistakable gesture forward, ordered him out to test the route.

The man's gaze flickered uncertainly, and Neal wondered if the man would challenge the Boss's authority, resentful of his new role as canon-fodder guinea pig. Ultimately, he clearly decided that his chances outside looked rosier than making himself a target for his boss's wrath. The gunman concluded his weapon would be an impediment, so he tucked it into his holster before hunching his head down and setting off at as much of a sprint as he could manage in half a foot of snow.

Somewhat to everyone's surprise, he made it to the first refuge - a stout tower of wooden crates. He slid into the cover it offered like a fox going to ground. Having survived so far unscathed, he seemed unable to pluck up the courage to complete the venture, and it took a spate of angry Russian from his boss to dislodge him from that position. It was almost an anticlimax when he reached the ship and jackrabbited down the hatch. Neal kept his expression blandly optimistic, but his private opinion was that taking potshots at a minor functionary would be a self-defeating proposition for the enemy, making it harder to winkle out the true targets.

No one seemed lulled into a false sense of security, but the Boss obviously recognised the inevitably of risking departure. Staying put for longer would be an act of cowardice that would lower his stature among his men, and it also would give the enemy a better chance to catch up with them if they hadn't already.

"Is the art in the trucks?" the Boss asked abruptly. It took Neal a moment to realise he was speaking English and supposed that the choice of language was because he was included in the question.

"The last articles should be loaded by now."

"Give them a call to verify, then tell them to drive the trucks around to here. We can use them as shields down to the docks and unload the most valuable pieces onto the boats."

Neal had to acknowledge that the plan had some merit. Not only would it provide cover for the men, but fear of damaging the artwork would deter shooting in their direction.

Within minutes, the trucks had rumbled to life, their wheels spinning on icy patches and fishtailing through deeper patches of snow until the front of the line reached their door. Given his preference, Neal would have politely ceded his position in line to another member of the gang and waved the convoy off with his best wishes. However, Blackbeard appeared to have elected him to the position of personal shield and yanked him out between the two brothers behind the second truck in the procession.

The trucks were a large, opaque barrier, and the members of the gang fortunate enough not be left to guard their retreat walked briskly beside these rolling shields, slipping occasionally on the slick concrete. The fact that Neal's ear was practically pressed against a roaring engine explained the fact that he missed the crack of the first shot. The only indication that something was wrong was the leading truck losing its forward momentum and slewing off to one side.

The convoy wasn't progressing fast, but since the gap between them had been maintained in inches, a collision was inevitable in the icy conditions. The crash wasn't significant, but it sent the whole procession into disarray.

Neal reached out a hand to steady himself against the warm, still quivering flank of the stalled truck. He might not have heard the shot, but he recognised a prefatory strike when he saw one. As the others milled about in confusion, he remained still, all senses on alert. He didn't have long to wait. This time the insistent crackle of gunfire was unmistakable. Glass in the side window a foot from his head parted with a sharp crack and the red spackling around the perfect hole told him it wasn't the first obstacle the bullet had plowed through.

He hit the ground before he was even aware of the need to move, atavistic survival instincts taking over. It occurred to him a moment later that flattening himself on the ground might have been a monumental mistake and not just because of the wetness seeping into his inadequate clothing. His whole body might be visible under the undercarriage of the truck. A quick glance showed him that the angle was wrong. That glimpse also showed him a snapshot of the chaos erupting around him.

The Boss, his face crimson with rage, was screaming orders in Russian. Blackbeard was also bellowing, clearly exhorting the men to greater efforts. However, neither of the brothers had exposed themselves to the point of using the guns they were holding. The door to the cab of the third truck opened, and the driver rolled out. His hands were clasped around his neck, but they were useless in stemming the blood which poured through his fingers. Hoarse cries quickly petered into weak groans. His body gave a last spasmodic jerk and stilled. Only the blood stain still moved, shockingly red against the white snow, seeping outwards, diluting into light pink as it expanded.

Beyond him, another corpse sprawled, eyes open staring unblinkingly at the bright sky. The attack had been successful, but it wasn't going unanswered. Guns bristled from the doors and windows of the warehouse building like the spines of a molting hedgehog. Since he was unarmed, Neal figured he couldn't be expected to participate in this urban warfare. He kept his head down, which had the downside of causing him to lose sense of the flow of battle. He could see little except the occasional puff of snow kicked up by an errant bullet. However, the noises of the conflict remained inescapable, the screaming of the wounded and the panicked yelling of the gunmen. The gunfire was incessant, but in the cold air and wide open spaces, it was surprisingly muted, a sputtering punctuation in the background.

The realization seeped in as insidiously as the cold. He'd been operating blithely under the assumption that 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend," but this party, whoever they were, neither knew nor cared about his secret agenda. A stray bullet could remove him as permanently and impartially as any other member of the gang.

His body heat was melting the snow, which promptly soaked his front in gratitude, but the sensations of discomfort were borne away by the flood of adrenaline that was generated by experiencing the center of a firefight. After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually less than a minute, the cacophony of sound was joined by a harmony of sirens.

It took him several long moments to distinguish the sound and even longer to process that it wasn't merely a product of wishful thinking. Strangely, the sound filled him with as much anxiety as it did hope. It was way too soon for this to be a proportionate response to the amount of gunfire emanating from their location. A one-man squad car unlucky enough to be on patrol nearby would achieve nothing but self-immolation if they were caught between the two opposing groups.

Yet, as it approached, the persistent wail clearly came from several vehicles. The echoes off the warehouse might be deceptive, but it sounded like they were surrounded on three sides, the waterfront the only uncovered line. However, an attempt to escape in that direction would be suicidal, since the convoy of trucks had covered only a fraction of the distance to the docks.

Despite the discommoding elements of damp and cold, Neal was quite content to stay where he was, or even to bury himself deeper into the snow like an arctic fox, content to let the boys with the bigger guns battle it out. Blackbeard, however, had other ideas. Wild-eyed and frenziedly waving his gun, he looked like everyone's favourite stereotype of a terrorist. When the Russian grabbed Neal's arm and hauled him to his feet, Neal decided that discretion was the better part of valour and gave him no excuse to vent his frustrations on a nearer target.

Facing the firepower of two well-armed adversaries, the Boss had decided that his only recourse was to make a stand in the warehouse - a retreat that required only split-seconds of exposure to enemy fire between the stilled trucks with a rather more dangerous five-yard gap into the warehouse. Their attackers were now fighting a battle on two fronts, and their attention was distracted, so none of the Boss's men received even a scratch. Neal was one of the last to complete the gauntlet. He felt like a rabbit in a shooting gallery, but knew his speed stood him in good stead.

From the safety of the building, it was easier to look back and appreciate the strategy of their attackers. The drivers of the trucks had clearly been the primary target, and not one had made it out unscathed, and only two were alive. Their seats had been on the same side as their shooters, and only the slight angle towards the water had saved any of them.

The containers of the trucks seemed to be intact, certainly a deliberate policy since they contained the stolen art work. No painting had its value enhanced by a bullet hole through its centre. Half-a-dozen more of the Boss's men lay dead or dying in the snow. Blackbeard and the Boss were engaged in loud argument, the gesticulating indicating that it was over strategy.

Neal stripped off his sodden jacket and looked around hopefully for a replacement. His hopes of remaining in obscurity were shattered when a microphone-enhanced voice announced, "This is the FBI. We have you surrounded. Put down your weapons and come out of the building."

Even artificially magnified, Neal couldn't mistake Hughes' stentorian tones. His initial instinctive sunburst of relief and security that radiated warmth to frozen limbs evaporated, leaving behind a chill worse than anything the low temperatures could cause. For a split second, he had forgotten that Peter was dead, imagining him a commanding and reassuring presence in his unit. The sense of loss hit Neal anew, as did the realisation that he would soon have to explain the circumstances of his friend's death - that Peter had been injured protecting him, but Neal had been unable to return the favour, leaving his friend to die alone.

Guilt wasn't an emotion Neal was accustomed to feeling, but it was burning an acidic hole through him now. Too heartsick and too exhausted to care about the consternation and fury of the gang behind him, he stumbled over to a wall, where he slid down, head resting on knees. In his mind, the matter was effectively over. He had faith that Hughes and his team, with the backing of SWAT, would wrap up the case. The Boss would have no choice but to surrender or die.

Either way, Neal had played his part. It occurred to him that the old Neal Caffrey, possessing a strong sense of self-preservation, would have found a way to slip out the back, avoiding what could be a dangerous gun battle and an arrest, but he just wanted everything to be over. He would stay to ensure that the Boss didn't evade capture, and he would submit to arrest.

He ran his hands desperately through unkempt hair, noting with detachment that his fingers were trembling. He'd been living on his nerves for the last four days, with a severe deficit of sleep and food - his mind had been too occupied to accept the panacea of rest, and his stomach had rejected all but the bare minimum of sustenance. Now there was an end, however brutal, in sight, his body and mind were beginning to shut down.

"Caffrey! Get over here!"

Neal lifted his head at the peremptory summons, then reluctantly dragged himself up and back over to the Boss. The men milling around their Chief parted to allow him through, and he didn't like the speculative, almost hungry, expressions in their eyes. He had a feeling that he was a particular juicy slab of meat that would be thrown to the lions to distract them while all the other gladiators ran away.

The Boss patted his shoulder with a heavy hand. "We need you to go out there and negotiate with the FBI for us."

Okay, maybe not a staked offering, but still a sacrificial goat. "You want me to do what?" He summoned up some incredulity, but didn't wait for an answer. "You want me to stroll out there into the sights of about a hundred guns just ready and waiting to shoot the first moving target. How's that supposed to be a plan? Why don't you just slather me with gravy and ring the dinner bell?"

The Boss ignored his sarcasm. "I'm sure the terrorists have moved on. They have no hope of recovering the art work now the FBI are here, and they won't want to be identified."

"Which just leaves the FBI. In case you've forgotten, I'm not their favourite person right now." Neal was arguing more for appearance's sake than with any real hope that he could change the Boss's mind. While not wildly enthusiastic about handing himself over to the FBI, he realised that it was inevitable, and it even suited his purposes. However, he doubted he'd make it that far. While he believed that the FBI would not fire on him without justification, it was more than possible that the Boss would shoot him in the back to make a point. However, if he refused outright, the Boss would probably execute him where he stood.

He glanced out the door again at the carnage outside, catching the metallic tang of blood wafting through the opening. "I really don't think I'm the best person to do this," he demurred.

"I think you are." The Boss was a large man, and he loomed threateningly over Neal. "Along with your credentials as a forger, you have a reputation as a con man. You could sell Care Bears to terrorists."

"How about negotiating on the phone?" Neal offered with feigned hope.

"There's no landline here, and I've no intention of handing our identities over by using a cell phone."

As if accepting the inevitable, Neal asked grudgingly, "So what am I supposed to be negotiating for? They aren't just going to let us waltz out of here with the treasure just because I say, 'pretty please'."

Blackbeard cut in with a suggestion. "Convince them that we are just businessmen protecting ourselves from an attack by well-armed thieves."

Neal didn't even bother disguising his scathing response to that. "The stolen art out there in the trucks will be something of a white elephant sitting there disproving that theory, not to mention the battery of guns menacing our would-be rescuers."

"I don't care how you do it. Tell them we have hostages in here, and we'll kill them unless they allow us passage out."

Neal pretended to consider that suggestion. "That might work in the short term, preventing an imminent SWAT attack. But if I secure free passage, where do you want to go?"

"Never mind that, just win us some time," the Boss said evasively.

"I can do that." Neal took a deep breath, bracing himself for the coming ordeal.

"Hold it!" The Boss hauled him to the doorway, risking a peek outside. "Draw yourself an imaginary line between the dip in the wall there and that pile of boxes. Don't cross that."

"What? How do you expect me to negotiate at a distance of several hundred feet?"

"They'll have to send someone out to meet you, or you'll have to shout. EIther way, you set a foot over that line, and I'll order my men to shoot. If you join the FBI, I've got no guarantee that you'll come back, that you won't just make a bargain on your own behalf."

Under different circumstances, Neal might have tried for a wounded look at the lack of trust, but he simply didn't care enough. He simply nodded. "Fine."

The Boss still eyed him suspiciously. He grabbed a light workman's jacket off a hook nearby. "Wear this," he commanded. He then took out his phone, thumbed it on and slipped it into a pocket. "This way, I can hear every word you say."

"If you don't trust me, find someone else to do this," Neal stated wearily.

"No, it has to be you. You know the FBI - how they work, how they think."

"You have to understand that I need some trust from you. I'm going to tell them that I'm being held against my will, that I'm a hostage too. That way, they're more likely to trust what I tell them. However, I don't want to get shot in the back if I start feeding them information you think I shouldn't."

"That's reasonable. Okay, I'll give you one warning, and then I'll shoot you in the back."

"Your restraint is appreciated," Neal responded with minimal sarcasm.

He plucked an off-white shirt from another hook and tied it by a sleeve to a piece of piping, then marched to the exit, without looking at any of the men who were staring at him. With both hands held high, his right clasping the bar with its forlornly waving cloth, he strode through the opening.

The light struck him like a blow. The sun was low and shining into his eyes, reflecting off millions of crystals, concealing the location of the FBI agents in a coruscating blur.

He could feel the sights of dozens of guns focused on him, an almost tangible metallic brush on his skin. He didn't really expect to survive the next few minutes, but that knowledge didn't fill him with the nausea or fear it should. The fresh, chilled air was an anesthetic running through his veins. The sky was clear and limitless, and in its wide space he felt like a thistle puff, light and weightless and free. That freedom might be illusionary and extremely temporary, liable to be ended with a bullet to the back, but for a moment it put a slight smile on his face.

Head held high, he walked forward.


	9. Chapter 9

Sidelined Chapter 9

Peter continued to work at the same arduous pace as he had during his first day out of the hospital. He rested his leg as recommended, although he did practice maneuvering with his crutches when El left the house to walk the dog or to get some supplies. However, he got no more than five hours sleep a night, the minimum he needed to keep functioning efficiently. He ate the food El placed in front of him, understanding the need to keep his strength up, but it was a mechanical process, and his appetite remained as depressed as his mood.

Peter was capable of tremendous patience and meticulous research, and he was too experienced an agent to expect instantaneous or continuous progress. However, that vaunted equanimity was fraying like an unstitched seam; the two days of inactivity seemed interminably long. He started to devise wilder, more desperate schemes to find his missing partner - such as tracing the terrorists and grilling them for their knowledge, or following them in the hopes of finding the Mob's location. Luckily, he never shared this plan with his confederates, since Mozzie finally came through with a name - the Tarasov brothers.

It opened up a whole new avenue of investigation that Peter mined relentlessly. To his dismay, there was no smoking gun aimed at any one location. However, he could detect a faint reek of cordite lingering around several. He compiled a list of these properties, both geographically and by order of probability. As much as he'd like to investigate each one personally, it was more important that the operation was carried out as thoroughly and expeditiously as possible.

He emailed a list of all the possible locations in the Manhattan area to Diana, then started to call police departments within easy distance of the other potential sites. He emphasised to each person the need for extreme caution, but also the importance of checking carefully, and he attached mug shots of each known member of the gang as well as a more candid photograph of Neal in the office to stress visually as well as verbally that he was an undercover FBI agent.

Elizabeth had returned to work, so there were only Satchmo's eyes fastened on him as he played thoughtfully with his phone, before taking the unusual step of sending off a text. There were two addresses from his list that remained unassigned, both further up the coast almost into Connecticut, and he pulled up one of those on Google Earth.

Its connection with the Tarasov brothers was even more tenuous than most of the other locations, and he couldn't justify an investigation of the premises. There was only a ship manifest that bore a strong resemblance to one that arrived at the container shipyard. Yet, Peter's intuition was sparking warnings along his skin. He scrutinized the image on his screen intently, noting the long wall and the solidity of the warehouse complex. It was large enough to contain a small army, and the defensive qualifications of the property were exactly what he'd want surrounding him if irate terrorists had reason to hunt him down.

He zoomed out and traced the route up the coast from the yard in which he'd been shot. It was feasible, but he had to acknowledge it was also a long shot. However, with all his other bases covered, this outlier called for his personal scrutiny.

He stared at the screen unblinkingly until his eyes misted over hazily, then he brushed the moisture away impatiently. He wasn't even sure why he was staring so intently. It wasn't as if Neal was going to send Morse code smoke signals. The website wasn't even broadcasting in real time. However, while it might not hold the answers to the universe, it might hold clues to the only question in his mind at that time.

A knock on the door interrupted his increasingly morose musings. He shouted an invitation to enter, and, as he expected, Mozzie sidled in. He was waving a cell phone, with a text message displayed, in Peter's direction.

"I'm not one of your minions to be summoned at your whim."

Peter smiled at him brightly, kindly ignoring the obvious retort that the little man had actually appeared as requested. "My minions object to being called minions."

"Yet, all power-hungry soulless government despots have them."

"Can you drive?"

Mozzie's mouth snapped shut, and he contemplated the question as if afraid of incriminating himself with the answer. "Drive?" he repeated cautiously.

"Get behind the wheel of a vehicle and successfully operate it to its selected destination," Peter elaborated helpfully.

"I have been known to drive a car," Mozzie admitted.

"Good." Peter tossed him the Ford keys. "We're going on a field trip."

Mozzie's eyes brightened with hope behind the thick glasses. "You've found him?"

Peter shook his head with reluctance. "It's a promising lead, but nothing more concrete."

"I'll take it," Mozzie asserted. "It's exponentially more than I've been able to ferret out. I would swear that he's not in this city any more."

Peter regarded him with interest. "That's actually good news, since we're heading out of the city."

He scribbled a quick note to Elizabeth explaining that Mozzie had taken him out for a run in the car. It was more euphemistic than honest, but he didn't want her to worry, and he hoped that she'd believe that being confined inside for the past few days had driven him stir-crazy. Like all good lies, it bore a close relationship to the truth. The prospect of concrete action to find Neal pumped adrenaline through his system, clarifying his mind while deadening the constant ache in his leg. He couldn't really explain the optimism he was feeling except that his Neal compass was throwing confetti and delivering persuasive campaign speeches.

Mozzie seemed to have caught the same mood and reined in his cynicism, going as far as to fetch the car, so Peter only had to hop down the steps on his crutches. However, when Peter switched on the GPS, he interposed the comment that the device was merely a tool for The Man to track his movements, a bourgeois tracking anklet for the law abiding.

"That's a little redundant since the car's lo-jacked anyway," Peter pointed out. "However, I like the redundancy since, if we do find Neal, I'd like back up to find us as soon as possible."

Mozzie eyed him askance. "I have no interest in taking down the Russian Mob. They have a long reach, and I'm nobody's snitch. I just want to get Neal out."

"Mozzie, you have my word that that's the only thing that matters to me right now, but we may need help accomplishing it." He gestured to his crutches. "I'm not up to surreptitious infiltration; neither am I in any position to hobble in and demand him back."

"Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness," Mozzie quoted.

"Sun Tzu." Peter nodded his recognition. "He also said, 'He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot, will be victorious.' I need options. If you have a good plan, I'll consider it. But if it takes the full resources of the FBI, and I have to take on the whole damn Russian mob to get him back, I'll do that."

Peter hoped the silence that met his assertion meant that his reply was deemed satisfactory. He leaned back and tried to relax - which meant attempting to starve his imagination. Given the agility of his mind, he could envisage and embellish half a dozen worse-case scenarios before they reached the outskirts of the city.

Most of his worries centered around the reasons that his partner hadn't escaped from his captors. Neal had broken out of a maximum security prison, and Peter had seen first-hand the young man's ability to slip through any security precautions, unlock locks as if they were welcome mats, climb and jump with an acrobatic surety that made walls and roofs tools rather than impediments. Peter had honestly expected that Neal would be knocking at his door, hat tipped insouciantly, matching the smile beneath. The fact that this hadn't happened left the agent wondering what threats, injuries or shackles had been used to prevent Neal's departure, and that worry had chilled into an icy fist of fear in the pit of his stomach

The first view of the shipping yard did nothing to allay his concerns. It looked almost abandoned, although tracks in the snow showed that it was busier than it appeared. There was nobody in the guard house, and the gates were chained shut with thick lengths of metal looped generously around equally impregnable bars.

"Keep driving," Peter muttered. Mozzie projected casual disinterest as he drove past the entrance, continuing down the road that twined beside the large stone wall.

Both the road and the sidewalk were devoid of people. Yet, a heavy atmosphere of expectancy and tension blanketed the area. He wasn't the only one who felt that sense of disquiet.

"I've been in war zones that felt more neighborly," Mozzie muttered sourly. Peter cocked a quizzical eyebrow. There was little that Mozzie could say about his mysterious past that would surprise him, but he couldn't see the man as a candidate for the military or for hanging out in the foreign legion. Sensing the skepticism, Mozzie amended, "Urban warfare."

"Let's get off the battlefield and find a place we can observe without sitting in the middle of World War Three. I want to see over this wall."

"Sensible suggestion, Suit." Mozzie smirked to himself at the alliteration, then concentrated on driving, turning right at the first opportunity and bringing the car to a halt at the first available parking space. Peter was perusing maps on his smart phone.

Mozzie scanned the street for danger. "I'll get out and scout around."

"No!" Peter almost grabbed for him, then retracted his hand at the last minute, holding it up in a pacifying gesture. "We stay together."

"While I appreciate your protective, if autocratic and rather patronizing, attitude, scouting out the weakness of venues is something of a specialty of mine. This is a time my compact stature comes in useful. I don't look like a terrorist, or a mobster, or an FBI agent."

Peter waved at his sweatpants then broadened the gesture to include his crutches. "I don't look like an FBI agent either right now."

Mozzie snorted with derision. "You could be dressed in a clown costume and you'd still look like a Suit. This is one time the clothes don't make the man."

"Nevertheless, we're staying together. I have an idea for an excellent position to scope the area. There's a large bag in the trunk. Could you please get it out for me?"

Despite Mozzie's pessimistic prophecy, the two of them did not look very threatening struggling up the road, Peter wielding the crutches with a caution merited by the slippery conditions, and Mozzie staggering under a duffle bag almost the same size as himself.

"This better contain an arsenal of shadow government proportions and not your dirty laundry, Suit," he grumbled.

"I'm sure you'll find the destructive power in my bag satisfactory," Peter responded dryly. His leg ached fiercely, and the crutches weren't comfortable to use especially when he had to concentrate on staying upright. Despite his mobility problems, he led them unerringly to his destination, an abandoned five-storey office building. The ground-floor windows were boarded up, and the front door chained with a padlock.

Peter looked at Mozzie expectantly, but that expectation was met with bland innocence, which quickly turned into indignation. "Really? Do I have the letters MUG written on my forehead. Do you think I'm stupid enough to commit a crime directly in front of an officer of the law?"

Peter gave a sigh of waning patience. "I'd do it myself, but I'm a little unstable right now. I offer you full immunity for any criminal acts you might commit in the next five minutes." As Mozzie pulled out a pen to get that in writing, he offered with grim restraint, "Why don't I just turn my back?"

With pointed difficulty, he maneuvered himself until he faced back towards the storage yard. There were sounds of metallic scraping, then the jangling of a chain. "Shall we go in?" Mozzie asked brightly.

Peter turned back around and glared once more. "Just so you know, the immunity offer is now rescinded."

"I have three and a half minutes left," Mozzie argued pedantically.

"Which you will use for nothing more illegal that the entering part of our B&E."

Despite being boarded up, the entrance hall held all the detritus of any abandoned building - old food wrappers, coke cans, leaves and enough dust to form a bunny of Godzilla proportions - suggesting it wasn't the first time it had been broken into. Mozzie uttered a squeak that was apparently the prelude to a sneezing fit, and Peter swung hastily out of his way, hopping to a light switch and flicking it forlornly on and off as it occurred to him that no electricity meant no working elevators.

He regarded the stairs with a quelling look he usually reserved for recalcitrant CIs. "Let's go, Sneezy. There'll be less dust on the fifth floor."

"Was that some kind of heightist joke?

"No, it's just that there'll be less dust on the fifth floor."

"Less oxygen, too," Mozzie wheezed, renewing his grip on the duffle bag.

By the third floor, Peter was sweating, muscles shaking with the strain, armpits bruised by the pressure of the crutches. The sound of their breathing echoed in the stairwell, a testament to their efforts. They soldiered on to the next floor, but there Mozzie called a halt to their progress by dropping the bag with a thud of defiance in Peter's path.

"I think we're high enough. Stay here while I check it out."

For once, Peter didn't argue, saving his breath for such niceties as oxygen replenishment. He leant against the wall, relieved to have some support that didn't jab him in tender areas.

A triumphant exclamation from an inside room told him that Mozzie was satisfied with the view. "You can look right into the yard from here. Come and see!"

"We need the bag, Mozzie," Peter reminded him.

There was a moment's silence, then reluctant footsteps moved in his direction, with accompanying muttering, some of which Peter wasn't sure was actually English but the only thing he caught was, "Not a lackey for the establishment."

Mozzie grabbed the strap and sulkily started to drag the bag.

"Be careful," Peter warned him. "You might pull the pin off the grenade that way."

Mozzie froze in place, his eyes wide, "Seriously?"

"Yeah, it's right next to the RPG."

"Oh, very funny. Mock the man doing all the work."

The vista was indeed worth the climb, surveying the squat row of trees that mostly concealed the road and affording an excellent angle over the wall into the yard. There was still no obvious movement inside.

The room was empty of everything except the omnipresent dust and several empty crates. Mozzie was utilising one of the latter as a makeshift table, dumping the bag on top of it, then, with subtle kindness, he pushed another towards the window for Peter to use as a seat.

Peter unzipped the bag, pulling out a bullet-proof vest, which he threw at Mozzie. The little man held it up by two fingers with a look of disdain. "It'll spoil the fit of my jacket," he complained.

"A bullet will spoil the fit of your ribs. Put it on."

With practiced efficiency, Peter donned his vest then replaced his sweatshirt, before reaching back into the bag and pulling out a pair of binoculars and, after a moment's hesitation, a rifle. Thus equipped, he seated himself on the crate.

Mozzie gave a snort as he watched. "Lee Harvey Oswald with a Carcano rifle in the Book Depository."

"This isn't a game of Clue, Mozzie. Besides, that was the sixth floor."

"I suppose you think there wasn't someone on the grassy knoll when clearly..."

"Let's concentrate on the crime at hand."

Binoculars revealed the seething activity behind the apparent stillness and the armed men at every window of the warehouse. Peter fingered his telephone hesitantly. "There's something illegal going on here, but we don't have anything yet connecting it to Neal. I'm only going to get one shot at this. I'm not officially on the case or even on duty. If I call out the troops for a false alarm, I'll lose all credibility, and I won't be able to do it twice."

"Maybe I can help with that." Mozzie pointed at an acute angle near their side of the road. "I'm not one for racial profiling, but the Middle-Eastern gentleman there with the AK-47..."

Peter craned his neck to get a better look with the binoculars. "Damn it! The terrorists have found them and they know it. Either they're going to bolt or we're going to have a battle on our hands, and Neal's going to be in the middle of it."

A phone call to Diana assured him of back up, but it would be 45 minutes before a unit could arrive in force. Peter divided his attention between the warehouse, hoping to catch sight of Neal, and the terrorists outside, clearly setting up for an ambush or attack.

"Terrorist cells are usually small," he observed after a while. "But these guys intend to take on the mob. Either they've linked up with some friends, or they're recruiting some mercenaries. They've lost the element of surprise, and an offensive is going to take some manpower."

"Look!" The pointing finger and grim expression on Mozzie's face drew Peter's attention to the lone figure that had broken cover from the warehouse, clearly aiming for the dock. It wasn't Neal, which dismissed Peter's worse fear. However, it didn't stop his heart from hammering in horrified sympathy. The man's hunched shoulders and frantic speed revealed his awareness of the danger he was courting.

Unable to watch an unarmed man, whatever his status, be gunned down without making an attempt to prevent it, Peter raised his rifle, only to lower it a moment later helplessly. He didn't have a clean shot at either of the terrorists in his line of sight, and, even if he did, neither of them seemed to be making threatening moves, but there could be a dozen more he couldn't see ready to open fire.

They watched in bleak suspense until the man dove for cover on one of the ships in the harbor, whereupon they let out a simultaneous breath of relief.

"Maybe they don't want to start anything until their full complement of men are here, or maybe..." He broke off. "Did you hear that?"

Mozzie imitated his listening pose and quickly picked up the irregular thumping that must have alerted Peter.

"I don't suppose you locked the front door after breaking and entering?" Peter asked softly.

Mozzie shook his head. "Even I can't fasten a padlock and chain on the outside of a door from inside...well, not without some advanced preparation," he amended thoughtfully.

Peter allowed himself a brief moment of self-disgust and a swift mental kick. He'd been so wrapped up in his fear for Neal and the desire to verify his partner's location that he'd ignored basic FBI protocol - which was to secure his own position. Of course he wasn't the only one to see the advantages of the building in terms of its surveying potential. For the terrorists, it would exceed any other building for a sniper's nest.

Voices were clear now, speaking in what Peter could vaguely identify as a middle-eastern tongue. This was supposed to have been a rescue operation. He wasn't prepared physically or logistically for a fight with terrorists, but his wishes were irrelevant. They were trapped in the room with no possibility of backup for about twenty minutes. He ruthlessly overrode the claustrophobic panic of entrapment. He had only seconds to come up with a plan or they'd both be dead.

There was little doubt that the terrorists' firepower would make his own armaments look like a back-scratching fly swatter - maybe useful and lethal against a fly, but not exactly practical for pests of this calibre.

"Lie down," he hissed to Mozzie, who regarded him for a moment with wide frightened eyes, but obeyed with commendable alacrity, maybe picking up on the plan.

It was impossible to maneuver with two crutches and a rifle, so he hastily lay one beside Mozzie, hoping it would enhance the impression of the little guy's harmlessness, then he swung himself over to the door with the remaining crutch as silently as possible. He flattened himself against the wall beside the door trying to control his breathing, his heart beating a frantic tattoo against his ribs, seeming as loud as a welcoming drum roll to his own ears. He could only hope there were no freak acoustics to transmit it to the approaching men. He forced himself to relax his vigorous grip on the rifle, wishing he had his service weapon with him, but even if he'd been officially working, his holster wouldn't have functioned with crutches. There was a handgun in his bag, but he'd had no time to reach it.

Mozzie was gazing at him unblinkingly, managing to look as if he were poised for flight, despite his prone position on the floor. Although clearly scared, he was controlling himself. Peter appreciated his courage and sent him a reassuring smile accompanied by a hand gesture that he hoped conveyed the message, 'stay where you are and don't do anything stupid.'

There was more argument from outside; liquid syllables spat out impossibly fast and furious. Once again, Peter forced his tightening grasp to relax, knowing he couldn't maintain that urgent vigilance for long without exhausting himself. He rested his head back against the wall, trying to survey the scene in front of him objectively. He wanted the terrorists' attention to be drawn instantly into the center of the room where, hopefully, they would assume Mozzie was a vagrant who had broken in to find a place to sleep and was no threat to them. It would give Peter an instant to get the drop on what were presumably dangerous and highly trained men. He licked his dry lips, but apparently the inside of his mouth was devoid of moisture too, because it provided nothing by way of relief.

A door slammed, and Peter readied himself once more, but the voices were now further away, and the banging resumed on the stairs. Comprehension struck with accompanying relief and gratitude. The gunmen had been engaging in the same argument that had flared up between him and Mozzie over the necessity of continuing to the next floor. Lacking injuries to influence the decision, they had opted for the optimal sniper position.

Tension leaked out of his spine one vertebra at a time until he was slumped bonelessly against the wall. He would have liked to have slid down to the floor, but doubted he'd be able to get up again if he did so. Mozzie, however, popped up like an irrepressible gnome. Peter waved a quelling hand, signaling silence, since he wasn't sure how far sound traveled in the building and didn't want a return visit. Mozzie shot him a, 'You're not the boss of me,' glare but subsided, turning to look out of the window. He stiffened as he took in the scene outside, gesturing frantically for Peter to come over.

Peter responded to the urgency, pushing himself wearily off the wall and across the room. Together they stared down in consternation at the activity in the shipping yard. A tight convoy of trucks, angled slightly away from them, moving from the warehouse to the docks, had broken into disarray under withering fire. The vehicles, while still providing shelter for the beleaguered mobsters, concealed much of the carnage from the spectators' eyes. However, it was clear that there were fatalities, as bodies could be seen both in the cabs of the trucks and through the spaces between the trucks. It was impossible to tell under the conditions and at that distance if Neal was one of the unfortunates under fire or if he remained in the comparative safety of the building.

There was something wrong about that thought that rattled uncomfortably around his mind buffeted by the violence and treachery he was witnessing. Suddenly, all the pieces coalesced, and the terrorists' plan was appallingly apparent. "Oh my God," he breathed in horror.

As Mozzie turned to him questioningly, Peter held out the rifle. "Do you know how to use this?" he asked curtly.

Mozzie's eyes widened comically. "I might," he answered cautiously.

Peter took that as an affirmative and tossed it over. "Use it to protect yourself if necessary." He retrieved his hand gun from the bag, quickly checking it was loaded and ready to fire. "Stay here," he ordered.

Mozzie drew himself up to his full height, but didn't seem surprised when the move didn't really make him any taller. Peter gave him a hurried explanation as he started to hobble back across the room.

"They set it up brilliantly. They didn't move until the art was out of the building. Now the thieves have no choice but to leave it outside while they retreat back into the warehouse. Then the terrorists will do what they do best - blow up the building. Launching a rocket from a nearby structure would accomplish that handily. And..." Peter added the kicker to himself as he was almost out the door. "...Neal's in there."

Trying to hurry and remain quiet while hobbling on crutches was something of a physical oxymoron. Peter found himself putting more weight on his injured leg than was advisable, but adrenaline masked the pain. The handrail, cold and smooth under his fingers, assisted his mobility, but also required the use of his gun hand. Luckily for him, the terrorist who abruptly opened the door at the top of the stairs either expected to see a comrade or was merely retracing his steps, because his AK-47 was slung harmlessly over his shoulder.

Peter had a nanosecond advantage in terms of surprise, enabling him to level his gun first as he automatically started to shout identification. "F..."

That was as far as he got, the sound not even having the chance to echo in the confined space before the other man, with a practiced move, swung the gun into a firing position and pressed the trigger.

In was only the height differential - Peter was still half-way down the stairs - that saved him, bullets whistling over his head. The agent wasn't even aware of making a conscious decision to fire, but the terrorist crumpled instantly. That was the closest to death Peter had ever come and only the second man he had killed. It was only training that deferred shock and allowed him to proceed on automatic. There was at least one more terrorist, and he needed to check the man on the ground.

With his gun upraised, he limped up the stairs, staying close to the wall, his heavy exhalations reverberating around him. Precautions didn't help. The dead terrorist was lodged in the doorway, propping the door ajar. Peter saw only a flicker of movement from inside and was not even aware of the sound of a shot when a blow struck him in the upper chest, destroying his precarious balance and launching him backwards down the stairs. Instinctively, he tucked himself into a ball. There was a dizzying kaleidoscope of sight, sound and sensation. This confusion wasn't helped when the slide down the final steps ended with his head slamming into the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

Dazed, and only half conscious, he was dimly aware that he'd lost both his gun and the crutch. He tried to reach out to search for them, but his arms appeared to have their own agenda, which didn't involve communication with his brain. He struggled to push himself into an upright position, but succeeded only in a weak scrabbling movement. His vision was hazy, twirling with fairly nauseous intent, but he could still see the figure descending the stairs towards him.

He had failed. He had failed Neal by leaving him in the hands of a murderous gang with vengeful terrorists pointing what was probably a grenade launcher in his direction, and he'd failed Elizabeth by not returning to her. Bitter regret burned scarlet patches in the grim gray of shaded sight. It wasn't an inspiring thought, but the emotions it engendered provided a clarifying burst of adrenaline that seemed to reconnect brain and limbs. Refusing to die cowering in a corner, he braced his feet against the floor, pushing himself against the wall into an upright sitting position and leveling a defiant glare at the blurred shape of his would-be murderer.

The sound of a shot was a surprise, not because he didn't expect it, but because he didn't expect to be alive to hear it. The terrorist appeared even more startled, twisting around in alarm before flattening himself against the wall, gun pointed in the direction of the next flight of stairs. In was only then that Peter realised that a third party had intervened in his execution.

He kept absolutely still, doing nothing to bring the terrorist's attention back to himself. He still hadn't located his gun and hoped it hadn't ended up on the next flight of stairs, which zigzagged back out of sight, but he'd spotted the end of his crutch, which had clearly slid down in accompaniment with his body but had lost momentum before it reached the bottom. It now rested out of his immediate reach, a few steps up. He maintained the air of half-dead defeat until the gunman moved swiftly to take up a firing position down the next flight of stairs. At that point, he dove for the crutch, snatching it up and swinging it baseball style, though hampered by the tight confines of the stairwell.

The terrorist, alerted by Peter's movements, started to turn back, but succeeded only in presenting a better target as the metal smashed into the side of his knee, crumpling his leg obligingly. The sickening crunch was drowned out almost instantly by a high-pitched cry of agony. Despite the sudden collapse, the terrorist didn't relinquish his hold on his weapon. Peter's higher vantage point on the stairs now afforded him a glimpse of his own gun, and he half scrambled, half dove for it, palm closing around the grip and turning to bring the gun to bear in almost the same move. As his adversary's gun rose to meet him, Peter fired. The bullets flew true, and the terrorist flopped back, his weapon discharging harmlessly into the stairs below Peter.

The sound echoed endlessly, and Peter remained, gun outstretched, until the reverberations shuddered to nothing, replaced only by his hoarse frenetic breathing. At which point, he slumped back, ignoring the bruising edges of the stairs on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, concealing the sight of the two dead men, crumpled like his own personal parentheses on either end of the stairs.

He was vaguely aware that any attempt at protocol had grown wings and flapped heavily out the window, but he needed a minute to compose himself, to pull together those pieces that had frayed at the brush with both sides of death. He also needed a moment to recover physically, his pulverised, bruised skin pulled too tightly over aching bones.

However, his respite wasn't destined to be long. A slight sound brought him bolt upright, gun raised again in defence.

"Suit?" There was an unfamiliar waver in the voice that made the appellation the only way to recognise the speaker.

"Mozzie." Peter shut his eyes in a brief swell of relief. "It's okay...I think. Come up the stairs carefully."

It was only when the little man came into view around the corner of the stairs, carrying the rifle that Peter had given him earlier, that the agent realised that it must have been Mozzie who had fired the distracting shot that saved his life.

Too sore to move, he watched as the conman did an agent's job of checking that the terrorist was actually dead and picking up the discarded gun before proceeding up the stairs towards Peter with concern on his face.

"Are you hurt, Suit?"

The obvious answer to that was, 'in so many places it would need the State of the Union address to cover it all.' Just thinking about it allowed his body to set off a cacophony of competing claims for his attention. If he had to prioritize, the fire in his leg would win a blue ribbon for first place, closely followed by...

There was a sharp exhalation as, with a jolt of realisation, he remembered why his chest ached so badly. He'd been shot. His fingers followed his line of sight to the hole torn in his sweatshirt. Common sense already informed him that the bullet had not torn through his flesh, but he needed the visual and tactile confirmation. His mind flashed back to the confrontation with Fowler in the garage more than a year ago as he found the bullet lodged firmly in his vest.

"I'm fine," he confirmed shakily, as much to himself as to Mozzie. He pulled out the small piece of metal, turning it over in his fingers and watching it catch the light, putting things into perspective as it did so. "Yeah, I'm fine." This time his voice was stronger. Bruises would heal. It could have been a lot worse.

"I stand corrected on the sartorial nature of the garment. It is not only an eminently practical garment, but almost elegant."

"It certainly beats the alternative." Peter was tentatively exploring the bump on his head. Although it appeared to rival Mount Everest in size, his fingers came away with only a smear of blood on them, so it clearly wasn't as bad as it felt.

He noticed that Mozzie was still watching him worriedly, but had started shuffling a little restlessly, feet twitching with nervous energy. "Didn't I tell you to stay put?" he asked, but his tone was mild.

"Good thing for you I don't take orders from anyone," Mozzie smirked, but there was a justified sense of pride in his expression.

Peter didn't deny him the praise he'd earned. "You did good, Mozz. Thank you."

"Well," Mozzie offered magnanimously. "I did owe you one."

"I'll consider all debts wiped out, if you could just..." Using the railing, he pulled himself to his feet, locking his good knee to avoid immediate collapse. The stairs swam in circles, resembling a rudimentary Escher sketch, enhanced by sparkling dots. He swayed, his whole body waveringly uncertainly, on the verge of toppling down the remaining stairs until a steady hand gripped his arm.

"At the moment, sitting or falling seem to be your only two options, Suit."

"No, I'm fine. I was going to say, I would be grateful if you could pass me my crutch. I need to see what's happening out there."

Peter's progress up the stairs was purposeful, but slow, and he kept a tight grasp of the railing throughout. Mozzie pretended not to be hovering under the flimsy guise of loitering in the stairwell. At the top, Peter automatically used the end of his crutch to push the AK-47 away from the dead terrorist, but didn't take the time to pick it up, concentrating instead on finding the room that mirrored the one on the floor below. A half-assembled RPG launcher lay on the floor, but he ignored that too and hobbled eagerly to the window.

At first glance, the tableau seemed more or less unchanged. The trucks, now abandoned, lay in the same jagged, slightly semicircular formation he'd last seen them, like an ill-made set of giant dentures. Any of the Russian mob who could still move had retreated back to the warehouse, where guns still bristled from every window.

However, on closer examination, the terrorists had disappeared; whether they had called off the attack altogether or merely withdrawn to a safer position, Peter couldn't tell. The cause of this maneuver was apparent on their left, where flashing blue lights announced the presence of the reinforcements Peter had been awaiting.

Peter turned to Mozzie. "I need you to stay here."

The incredulity on the conman's face was almost amusing. "You expect me to stay here with an arsenal of illegal weapons and two dead bodies. How about 'no'!"

"Mozzie, I need you to be my eyes. This is the best vantage point there is. I'll send some people to back you up who understand the situation." However, it was clear that Mozzie was no longer listening to his rationalization. His face was several shades paler, and his mouth was parted in shocked dismay as he stared outside.

Peter spun back to the window, horror at the sight before him pushing the air out of his lungs in a shredded gasp. Even at this distance, it was impossible to miss Neal's figure and jaunty walk. Neal - walking out of the warehouse into the middle of the yard, a magnet for the sights of every gun out there, whether in the hands of FBI, mobster or terrorist. Fear burned its way through Peter's nerves like acid, and helplessness built up a terrible pressure in his chest and throat. If just one gun went off, or even if a car backfired, nervous trigger fingers would automatically constrict. Neal wouldn't stand a chance, and Peter could do nothing but watch.

"Oh God, Neal!"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Neal's euphoria was short-lived, quickly replaced by a heavy sense of dread as a multitude of emotions came crashing down on him. Cold soon invaded the flimsy material that covered him, and the weight of the Boss's phone in his pocket was a constant reminder of his invisible tether to the mobster. This taste of liberty was transient, and it would either end swiftly with a bullet through the brain, or slowly, with him lingering in a musty cell. This was the last freedom he would know for a long time. Now he had to confront his erstwhile colleagues, who almost certainly blamed him for Peter's death.

He stopped well short of the line established by the Boss, not wanting to tempt fate by stepping nearer, and not wanting to be close enough to the FBI to read their expressions. There he stood, waiting for acknowledgment, head held high, body braced for a blow, whether it was the physical punch of a bullet or the emotional buffet of accusation and distrust.

It seemed like hours, but was probably more like two minutes, before he received a response from behind the gates. "Caffrey." It was Hughes' voice, wary, carrying a caution that Neal read as mistrust, but may merely have been uncertainty at the situation. "Please continue to move forward. The gates have been unlocked, and we can talk in a more secure location."

Neal raised his voice to carry the distance. "Actually, the situation dictates that I stay right here."

With every fibre of his being, he wished it were Peter on the other side of the gate, first and foremost because it would mean he was alive, but also because, with the near-telepathy they sometimes seemed to share, he knew his friend would pick up on clues, hints and implications in his words and would figure out the true state of affairs. Neal's voice was gruff from the constriction in his throat as he continued. "I've been asked to negotiate with you to try and resolve this standoff."

The reply was stern and unyielding. "There will be no negotiation. All weapons must be surrendered, and all personnel come out with their hands raised."

It was the response Neal expected, straight from the FBI playbook, yet, despite this matching of his expectations, he was at a loss to know how to proceed. His ideal plan would placate both parties, a tricky proposition considering their opposing agendas and one his usually fertile mind seemed unable to master. The stress he was under might be a stimulant for his body, but it seemed to be a sedative for his brain, or maybe with the loss of his partner and his own dismal long-term prospects, he didn't care enough to try.

He could play the hapless hostage, trusting that the Boss would remember what he said about currying favour with the FBI. But Hughes and his unit knew him too well to take such a performance at face value. It would make no difference to their conduct either way; they would proceed professionally. In the end, he decided it was best to continue the role of impartial go-between and hope that Hughes would understand he was operating under duress. The Boss had told him to play for time, and he would do that, not so much because it was what the mobster wanted as because it would give Hughes and his men the opportunity to contain the situation.

Neal kept his tone cold and distant, with no attempt at his usual conman warmth. This was the persona he'd used with the mobster, who wouldn't notice the difference. Hughes would hopefully draw the correct conclusions.

"I quite understand your position and, under normal circumstances, my...employer would not hesitate to cooperate with the authorities. However, I hope that _you_ understand that this facility has just suffered a vicious and unprovoked attack. My employer's first responsibility is to his men. It would be unconscionable to send them out unarmed before he has verified that there is no longer any threat to their safety. Can you guarantee that there are no members of the gang that attacked us still out there? Have you even secured the perimeter?"

Peter would have understood the hint behind the criticism. The Boss must have a bolt hole somewhere that he was planning to use, and playing for time worked both ways, giving Hughes time to plug it with the aid of blueprints and additional men. It was a risk saying as much, and Neal's shoulders tightened in expectation of a bullet, but the Boss appeared to approve of the direction he was taking in his negotiations.

There was a pause from behind the gates, which Neal hoped meant Hughes was giving orders to block all escape routes, then: "It would help if you could give us more information on your assailants."

"I know nothing about them," Neal answered with absolute truth. "I didn't see any of them. There was no warning before the attack, and I could only very vaguely estimate their numbers from the gunfire - maybe 15 to 20 - and the shots seemed to be coming from that direction." He gestured along the length of the wall.

There was a long silence before Hughes spoke again, and he sounded distracted. "Clearly, this is a complicated situation. We'll check out the security of the location and get back to you. Please stand by."

Neal shivered and folded his arms around himself to try to retain some heat. He was used to being the cynosure of all eyes, even enjoyed it under normal circumstances, but being targeted by the barrels of scores of guns was a different situation. He contemplated a retreat to the warehouse. It would afford him shelter of a sort, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Seeking out the company of the mobsters would brand him as one of them. It was somehow appropriate that he was alone in no-man's land, neither criminal nor law enforcement, but it was also profoundly lonely.

Enough time passed for the crawling maggot of fear inside to start to metamorphosise into a contained pupa of boredom. Apparently, imminent death could only hold his attention for so long. There was nothing to sit on and nothing to watch, and the last thing he wanted was time to think. He tipped his head back to see if the sky held any diversions and tracked the white trail of an airplane, but his interest in that quickly palled.

In the end, his attention was grabbed by a sudden increase in noise beyond the gates in the FBI base. It seemed as if an argument was developing. He couldn't really hear the words, but recognised Hughes' strident tones of irritation. The altercation went on for several minutes, and at one point, he thought he picked up the particularly vociferous words, 'Are you insane?' The comfortable familiarity of it almost made him smile, and the concomitant suggestion behind it that something was about to break loose renewed his attention, although he carefully kept his body language relaxed.

An amplified squawk signaled that the debate was over and that Hughes was ready with another announcement aimed more at the mobsters in the warehouse that at Neal. "We've secured the perimeter, and we're in the process of checking nearby buildings for remnants of the gang you were fighting. Meanwhile, I'm sending in a negotiator to talk to your man. Do not fire. Any hostile actions on your part will be met with immediate retaliation."

The iron gate groaned open, and a figure limped through the gap, swinging between two crutches. Neal's breathing stuttered to a halt at the man's resemblance to Peter. At this distance, he couldn't even say what he based the similarity on. The guy was in sweatpants, and clearly his gait was disguised by the injury. Black spots danced in front of Neal's eyes, obscuring his vision, and he inhaled sharply, dragging in the air he'd forgotten to breathe.

His eyes burned as he continued to stare unblinking, his chest tightening in a band around a sudden sense of panic, fearing that if he looked away, he'd lose the comfort of illusion. Time appeared to slow in his own personal dilation as his entire universe narrowed down to that approaching figure. He waited, poised, shaking in a rhythm that matching the stomp of crutches and feet. It was only when the man closed to an unmistakable proximity that Neal allowed his head to believe what his heart already knew.

His eyelids slipped shut, chasing out the moisture that had gathered there to slide down grimy cheeks. There was a big crazy feeling lodged up behind his ribs. Of course he was alive. Peter always came for him, his personal trumeau between the world of crime and that of rectitude. He opened an eye to risk another glance, his friend now close enough for Neal to take in that characteristic expression of determination and solidity, currently tempered by tight lines that seemed to be permanently etched around sombre eyes.

His world tilted back on the correct axis as if Peter were his ballast, the source of his upright stability and horizontal balance. With that adjustment, Neal's brain rebooted, allowing it to run with a clarity that had been lacking for several days. The sheer joy and relief of seeing Peter alive was quickly subsumed by an equally intense horror that nearly compelled him to echo Hughes' cry of 'Are you insane?'

Peter might not be in danger from the FBI guns behind him, but the Boss had every reason to want him dead, since the agent was the most credible witness of the crimes the mobster had committed. Neal's first instinct was to simply refuse to negotiate with Peter, forcing him to return back behind the protection of the gates. However, if Neal didn't convince the Russian of Peter's value as a negotiator or if the mobster suspected any type of collaboration, it was a long, slow walk back to safety for a man on crutches.

As Peter limped to within a few yards, Neal felt an overwhelming urge to close the gap, to throw his arms roughly around his friend, as he had after Keller's kidnapping, to assure himself of Peter's continuing existence. Instead, he did the opposite, taking a step back and flinging up a hand to stop Peter's forward movement.

Peter and he had faked a fight before, so he knew the signal he had to give, flicking his finger across his nose as if wiping off an errant bug, a gesture that would be impossible to see from behind.

"You're like a damned cockroach." The words were thick and wet, but gained strength as he continued. "We kill you off, but you just come back again, as much as a pest as before." He hoped Peter could hear the subtext - they told me you were dead.

Peter's response was immediate, no hesitation discernible. "That's rich, coming from you, a parasite on society. I'm just fine and I'm not going anywhere until I see you behind bars where you belong." Neal hoped the subtext of that was that Peter was fine and, moreover, was willing to follow his CI's lead.

Neal's arms were crossed, and gently, with his forefinger, he tapped out 'EARS' in Morse code on his upper arm. As Peter's gaze flickered to the movement, Neal cast his eyes down towards his pocket. His friend's expression didn't change, but Neal thought he caught a slight nod. Encouraged, he continued his diatribe.

"At least I'm honest about what I do. You hide behind the law while you hound, blackmail, and manipulate those who are supposed to be in your protection."

"I've done my job - which is to protect society from criminals like you."

"Well, as I was telling your Boss, you're barking up the wrong tree here. We're not the aggressors in this situation, but the victims of a ruthless attack. Why aren't you chasing after the real villains?"

Peter huffed scornfully. "Oh, drop the innocent act, Caffrey. We know exactly who you're working for and what they've done, and we have the arrest warrants to back it up."

This was the part of the con that Neal usually enjoyed the best, living on the edge, adrenaline perking, words his weapon of choice, shaped by his will, sparkling and weaving in a dance of distraction. Instead, he was shaking slightly, his simulated anger making him slightly nauseous. He felt out of control. Not only had he no aces up his sleeve, but there were also no trumps and no court cards. Bluff was his only recourse, that, and the hope that his partner's hand would shore up his weaknesses.

"When we took over this facility, we took the workers and several of their families hostage." This time he tapped out 'false' and then, in case that wasn't clear enough, he added, "none' while he continued to talk. "You can go back and tell your boss that any attempt to storm this place will lead to a bloodbath, so unless you want to be known as the federal agent who started the new Waco, I suggest you go and look up the word compromise in the dictionary."

"Why don't you look up capital punishment in yours." Peter stumped closer. "Now you listen to me. Stop wasting our time and ask your boss exactly what his terms are. If they're reasonable, we might listen to them. However, you also tell him that if we believe the hostages are in danger, if as much as one shot is fired inside that building, we'll be in there so fast and with such heavy fire power that you won't even have time to duck for cover. Do you understand?"

Suddenly, a long arm reached out, grabbing Neal by the coat and yanking him in closer. Peter lost a crutch in the process, but it didn't seem to affect his level of intimidation. It was a parody of a private moment as Peter hissed in his ear quite loud enough to be picked up by the phone. "This is my promise to you, you little vermin. If as much as one person dies, I'm holding you personally responsible." For a split second, he was pulled even closer, preparatory to being cast aside, and a ghostly whisper tickled his ear. "I'm going to get you out of this."

Neal was pushed away, and he sprawled on the ground, exaggerating the shove. "You hear me Caffrey? That's a promise." Peter spat out the last words like a threat instead of the solemn oath of protection they were. He watched Neal pick himself up and dust himself off as if embarrassed.

Peter bent to retrieve his crutch. Sending Neal back to the mobsters went against every protective instinct he had, but short of dancing around him, sprinkling sage and singing warding chants, there wasn't much more he could do. Instead, he had cloaked his partner in the unlikely shield of opprobrium and threats. He hoped that the Tarasov brothers were paying attention when he warned of the dire consequences of even a single shot. He stomped his way back to the FBI base, too intent on plans to redeem his promise to Neal to worry about his own predicament.

Eager hands pulled him to shelter behind the wall and hustled him to the back seat of a car, where he could take the pressure off aching legs. The car dipped again as Hughes folded his long limbs into the seat beside him. His craggy face was even more dour than usual, verging on restrained anger. "What the hell is going on, Peter. Is he really working for them?"

Peter stared at him blankly for a moment, not understanding how Hughes could even suggest that. While he'd been very aware that two conversations had been going on, in his mind, the second had been purely for the convenience of the Tarasov brothers. It hadn't occurred to him that his FBI colleagues would take it at face value. He pondered sadly on the tendency of the department to always expect the worst of Neal. He was guilty of it himself sometimes. After all, they couldn't afford to forget that Neal was a conman - his very job description involved the violation of people's trust. His livelihood depended on him being charming and personable, making people like him. Neal's description of the long con had sent a chill down Peter's spine as he wondered if Neal's position in the FBI fell under the same category.

Yet these suspicions hadn't altered his feelings for the young man. Partly with the help of Elizabeth, he had come to terms with that. It had involved a major shift in his own concept of propriety, but after all the time he'd spent chasing Neal and during his day-to-day partnership with him, Peter had become comfortable with the realization that although he might never trust Neal around certain artifacts, there was no doubt that his friend's heart was in the right place.

He was almost positive that Neal knew where the submarine treasure was, even if he hadn't stolen it, but somehow Peter's priorities had shifted from catching Neal to protecting him from the consequences of his own actions. When it came to the important things, he could trust Neal absolutely. He now found himself insulted on Neal's behalf that Hughes could believe he would join a group of thugs.

"No, Sir, of course not. Neal believes they are trying to play for time, that the leaders have a bolt hole they intend to use. We need to get the specs for the sewer system around here."

Hughes frowned. "How did you get that from your conversation? What about the hostages?"

"There aren't any, with the exception of Neal himself, of course."

"Peter, are you sure about this?"

Peter maintained strong eye contact and pushed his case. "Reese, you let me go out there, despite the circumstances, because you knew I was right when I said I was the world's expert on Neal Caffrey. He's playing a role to stay alive, and he communicated with me very clearly."

Hughes still looked a little doubtful and maybe a trifle uncomfortable. "Don't you think you might have lost your objectivity where Neal is concerned?"

It was close enough to his own musings to bring a tinge of colour to Peter's face. He thought of the tear tracks he'd seen on Neal's face as relief replaced devastation. "If there is truth in that, it's because I know him. I know what he's capable of and what he's not capable of. Right now, I trust him with my career and my life."

Peter's convictions must have satisfied Hughes. "So, how are you thinking of playing it?"

"We get Neal out, then hit them hard and fast."

"What's your plan for accomplishing the first half of that?" He watched Peter pull out a gun. "You know you are out on sick leave and shouldn't even have a weapon."

Peter ejected the clip and checked there was no round up the spout. "Then it's a good thing there'll be no bullets in it."

Hughes opened the door. "I'll prepare the SWAT team and have a team look into possible bolt holes."

"Thank you, Sir. I have a phone call I need to make."

Within ten minutes, all the troops had been briefed and were in position, though still well concealed. Peter had spoken to his team and was standing near the gate, looking more grim than usual, but steady and determined. He gave Hughes a final nod, and the lead agent picked up the microphone and called on the mobsters to send out their negotiator for a final discussion of terms.

This time, both Neal and Peter left their bases simultaneously and strode, or in Peter's case, hobbled towards each other belligerently. It felt like the high noon showdown in an old Western, although usually it was the participants who were armed and not the spectators. The most he and Neal could do was to spit venom at each other as they did before.

The trepidation in Neal's eyes and his suspiciously bruised cheekbone made it easy for Peter to get into character. "Okay, Caffrey, let's hear it." He only half-listened to Neal's list of demands, both of them knowing that they were merely intended as nothing more than a blind distraction. Slowly, he started to circle Neal, forcing him to turn with him until the two of them were perpendicular to their original positions, Peter's back to the full length of the wall.

Once satisfied he was in place, he interrupted. "That's it! You think you're going to step on a plane and fly away?" Neal fell silent, watching him warily, unsure where he was going with this combative statement. "The things you did as Mr. Black should not be forgotten."

He saw Neal's eyes widen with comprehension and, satisfied, he brought his oration to a thundering conclusion. He threw down his right crutch and drew his gun from under his back waistband, firing it at Neal. Even knowing the gun was unloaded, he couldn't bring himself to fire directly at his friend, aiming it slightly to his left, knowing that, at their angle, no one would know the difference.

Neal took one faltering step backward before collapsing on the ground. Peter had been afraid he might try something over-dramatic, but it was frighteningly realistic, and his heart swooped in sickening fear as he stared at the figure sprawled, one leg twisted at an uncomfortably boneless angle, on the ground. He only had a split second to curse Neal's artistry; the stunned silence was broken by the sound of a shot, the echoes making it impossible to determine its point of origin, but perhaps coming from the buildings beyond the wall. It caught the FBI agent in the back, roughly propelling him forward so he collapsed on the body of the man he'd just 'murdered'.

The violence was sudden and shocking and, as Hughes had promised, retaliation was immediate. The SWAT teams fired tear gas canisters into almost every window, followed by flash bang grenades and a seeming army of blue-clad armed men.

The Tarasov brothers seemed to have disappeared, leaving their men leaderless, so few put up a fight in the face of the odds, and none gave any thought to the two dead men piled in the courtyard, motionless, discarded, their mute stillness an odd contrast to the flurry of activity, shouts and shots that reverberated across the empty space.

Most of the gang surrendered or were subdued within minutes, but sporadic fighting continued for much longer. In the end, the SWAT team had the equipment and experience to root out these diehard pockets of resistance. Even when all the fighting had finished, all hands were needed to restrain and Mirandize the suspects, seize the evidence, including the artwork, and see to the injured. So it was a harried Diana who ran up to give the two men the all clear.

It was too similar to the scene in the container for her liking. Kneeling next to Peter's seemingly dead body was getting old fast. Her distress and anxiety were hidden by a testy tone. "Boss, it's over. Are you okay?"

Peter lifted his head slightly and flapped a hand in her direction. "Yeah, I'm good. Neal, are you good?"

Neal's eyes opened, but he made no effort to move. "I was until you pancaked on top of me. Now I'm may be a bit flatter than good."

There was a moment's silence, then Diana asked, with a trace of amusement, "So, I hate to mention it, but do you realize that you are still lying on top of Neal?"

"I hadn't noticed," Neal answered immediately.

"To be pedantic, I'm lying across Neal. It just so happens that he's occupying a perpendicular space under me. If you must know ,it's because being shot in the back, even while wearing a bulletproof vest, feels like being kicked in…" He broke off, glanced at Diana and, maybe for the sake of gender solidarity, changed what he was going to say. "…kicked in the gut by a mule. Moving just seems to be an optional extra at the moment."

"I'm on my way to call for some extra transportation. I'm going to call for the medics to check you out."

"No!" Both men spoke out simultaneously.

"I'm fine, really," Peter insisted and, to prove it, he levered himself off Neal into a sitting position. Getting shot after falling down the stairs should definitely be characterized as bad. His back was to Diana, so only his young CI could see the effort it cost him.

"OK," Diana conceded. "Why don't you get over to the base. Call me if you need me."

As she hurried away, Neal also curled up until he was sitting. It was a graceful movement, but also engendered a wince, which did not escape Peter's notice.

They were bolstering each other up by leaning against each other's shoulders, and they sat in companionable silence.

"I thought you were dead." The words were spoken so softly that, despite the second person pronoun, Peter wasn't sure they were addressed to him or if he was supposed to hear them. Upon reflection, however, they seemed to deserve a response.

"You weren't the only one. I was beginning to have my doubts about your continued health. If maximum security prisons couldn't hold you, what chance did these half-baked thieves have?"

"I wasn't trying to escape. I wanted to take them down, to make them pay." He gave a short laugh, which contained little humour. "I was even going to do it legally." Peter heard the unspoken 'for you' and felt a fierce rush of affection for this complicated man. He tilted his head a little, allowing it to rest on his friend's. The contact allowed him to feel just how violently Neal was shaking, and he turned slightly to get a better look at the young man, frowning in concern at what he saw. Having so recently experienced hypothermia himself, he was alert to the signs in Neal.

"Why are we sitting here in the snow when I'm sure there are warmer and dryer places to be? Your jacket is completely soaked. Take it off, and put mine on." He bulldozed over Neal's automatic protest. "I've got several layers on, including an extremely insulating bulletproof jacket. I won't miss my coat."

Neal tried to comply, but his hands were just too cold to manage the intricacies of such a job. The garment clung wetly as Peter tried to extricate him, and the process pulled up Neal's shirt, revealing an assortment of bruises on his torso. Most of them were several days old, but they told the story of abuse over time.

Peter felt a slow burn of anger. "Damn it, Neal. You look like a walking bag of skittles."

Neal bundled himself in Peter's coat, engulfing himself in its very welcome warmth while he retorted, "I imagine your back looks like a starburst and not the edible kind." Then quietly he added, "Don't worry, I've had worse."

That wasn't ultimately reassuring, but the sartorial maneuvers had left Peter drained, and he didn't have the energy to pursue that line of enquiry at that moment. Neal came to his rescue, handing him a crutch, then drawing Peter's arm around his own shoulder, pulling him gently to his feet.

"This is familiar, isn't it," Neal joked. When there was no response, he twisted for a glance at his friend, whom he could feel swaying dizzily despite his two props. "Peter, you are the colour that artists commonly term 'eggshell white.'"

Peter was in no mood for conversation. His leg was making it clear that he'd been ignoring his doctor's orders to take it easy. His back ached with a fiery passion, and he was finding it oddly difficult to fill his lungs. "Your lips are blue. We're a regular artist's palette," he managed.

They stumbled across the yard, Neal keeping the pace steady but slow, not sure what was wrong with his friend, but positive something was amiss. He'd checked that there was no blood on Peter's leg, and he'd surreptitiously inspected his back and found the bullet embedded in the jacket; it hadn't penetrated the material. But despite the relative lack of exertion involved in their walk, Peter's heart was pounding at a breakneck pace, and his breathing was shallow but harsh.

If there had been a place to rest, he'd have left Peter there and fetched a medic, but there was nothing in the snow-filled expanse, and the warmth and comfort of the FBI vehicles weren't far, so they continued. The sight of Hughes approaching from the gate filled Neal with profound relief, which was, he reflected, a first.

"Peter, I swear you're spending too much time with Caffrey. This plan was truly insane."

Neal could feel his partner straighten up. "Actually Sir, I'd like to think of it as inspired. Can you think of any other way we could have got Neal out of this unhurt? Do we have any casualties?"

"Nothing serious. We came out of this in great shape, and I'm grateful for that. But Peter," he hesitated. "The bad news is that we have to take Caffrey into custody."

"No!" Peter's response was instantaneous and definitely insubordinate, but Hughes appeared prepared to overlook that.

"Ultimately, it's for his own protection. He's been off anklet for five days, working with known felons, after disobeying an order to stay put. It's important we avoid any appearance of impropriety if we want to prevent a Board of Inquiry later."

Peter knew that was true, but he had a deep-seated need, which he didn't intend to explain, to keep the trouble-prone young man in his sight. "I understand that and agree with the need to debrief Neal as soon as possible. However, I don't believe we need to take him into custody to do that. He should be treated as an agent would under similar circumstances."

"Peter, we need to follow protocol."

Peter's chest was so tight, it was nearly impossible to breathe, but he had to make another point. "This is by the book. May I point out that Neal has been held captive for five days and has suffered injuries as a result. He needs to be in a hospital, and I think…" He was about to add, 'so do I', but at that point, the ground chose to shift and warp, then fall away completely.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's notes: So, this is it, folks. It's been a great ride, and I've enjoyed every minute of it. Now for the Oscar speech.

There are some people I need to thank. First and foremost my wonderful Beta, Susan. She is the perfect editor, finding minute things that are literally invisible to me, but she also knows exactly when to challenge a phrase I've been too lazy to change or when to leave a Britishism I don't want to change. She is also my cheering section through the long process before this sees the light of day. Thank you, my friend.

Great thanks also due to my family (who all love White Collar) - my long suffering husband (who usually goes by the name 'my doting fan' but occasionally forgets and signs in under my name!) and my sons who can anticipate the direction my stories will take better than anyone.

To the Three Musketeers - NDKidsMom, Wondo and Last1Stnding - for their wonderful feedback, support and friendship. To old friends, Florence and Sharon. To new friends, Sholio and Devoregirl. I've had so much fun talking to you all. Please keep writing to me!

To those stalwart readers who have given me feedback throughout posting - Govgal, Pechika, Aleeban, Kanarek13, SimplyOut, AstroKat, Fletty, Hannahsmetana84, Elle92, LadyNiko. This story took me over a year to write so comments are greatly appreciated.

Lastly, thanks to Jeff Eastin and to Tim DeKay and Matt Bomer who have give us such wonderful characters.

I am already on Chapter 3 of my next White Collar story. It won't be as long as this one, so maybe you'll see me again in less than a year!

Sidelined Chapter 11

It was three days after Peter's terrifying and dramatic collapse that Neal arrived at the Burke residence. He hadn't spoken to his partner in all that time, although he'd seen him once, 24 hours later, but Peter still lay unconscious at that point.

Neal himself had been kept in hospital for observation overnight, the doctor citing concerns about hypothermia and low blood sugar coupled with multiple contusions. It was a useful diagnosis to have to back up his claims of abuse and coercion at the hands of his captors.

Hughes appeared to feel some responsibility for Peter's condition, and Neal benefitted from the transferal of that guilt. The senior agent handed him over to Jones who, despite reuniting him with his anklet, had been considerate, allowing him to peek in on Peter the next morning before taking him to the White Collar unit for debriefing. Neal had anticipated another prolonged stay in jail, so he would have been delighted by the preferable treatment if it weren't for the feeling that everyone was honoring Peter's final wishes.

While waiting in interrogation, he received a strange phone call from Mozzie, which Jones arranged to be put through to him. Neal was used to his friend's eccentric and often slightly manic ways, but Mozzie seemed more agitated than usual, enquiring after Peter's health, to which Neal could only offer the reply he'd received to the same question –- that Peter had apparently had a comfortable night. It seemed to offer a similar lack of reassurance to Mozzie.

As an afterthought, Mozzie asked if Neal were in need of his legal services. Neal considered the offer, but found himself afflicted by the same desire to respect Peter's wishes as his colleagues, so he declined regretfully and provisionally. He would offer only the truth as his defense.

Hughes himself conducted the briefing, with a mostly subdued Diana assisting, and Neal had never appreciated the senior agent's professionalism more. The process was exhaustive and thorough, but Hughes kept it impartial with even a touch of compassion.

There were two main strands to the enquiry. The first concerned events surrounding Neal's capture and how Peter was left near-death, locked in a freezing container. Hughes led him through every detail of every decision and action. These were not memories Neal wanted to revisit. He tried to keep his answers matter-of-fact, but the stiffness in his spine belied the nonchalance in his tone. He wasn't used to analyzing his past actions, and this felt like an autopsy.

He steeled himself against the emotions that threatened his composure, teeth clenched hard enough to make his jaw muscles quiver. "Leaving Peter was the hardest thing I've ever done," he concluded. He made no effort to convince them of his sincerity, and his words were all the more credible for that. "I wouldn't, couldn't have done that unless I believed that there was a very real possibility he would die without the help I could summon. I had to return for the same reason. He was in danger of dying from bloodloss and hypothermia, and I couldn't just leave him alone. I would make the same decision again."

Hughes nodded and turned off the recorder. "That's enough for now. Agent Barrigan, please get him some hot food and a cot to sleep in for tonight. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

"Neal." It was unusual for the senior agent to use his first name, and the CI raised weary, blue eyes to meet Hughes'. "This process may seem brutal, but for your own protection, we need this on the record. On this issue, Peter's own testimony verifies the most important points, so I think we can let this matter drop."

Neal nodded his acceptance. "Have we heard anything about Peter?"

Hughes recognized the desperation behind his need to know and his right as Peter's partner to have access to that information. "I think we'd all like an update. I'll give them a call."

It was clear that Hughes was talking to Elizabeth, but no matter how he strained his ears, Neal couldn't hear her voice, and Hughes lacked something as a conversational partner, his role consisting mainly of encouraging noises and grunts. However, his one exclamation of, "That's extremely good to hear," bolstered Neal's patience.

After he finished the call, a smile softened his dour face as he turned to Neal. "Good news. Peter's doing fine. In fact they're planning to release him tomorrow."

Neal's face lit up with relief. "That's great, but isn't it a little premature?"

"Apparently, there's nothing much they can do for him in the hospital. He just needs to rest. It'll be a couple of weeks before he's back on duty and a couple of months before he's off desk work."

"Oh joy. Mortgage fraud," but Neal's delighted expression belied the sour words.

Hughes regarded him thoughtfully. "Good night, Neal. Get some good sleep."

Neal's eyes burned with exhaustion, and worry for his partner had seeped deeply into his bones, leeching away the last vestiges of his energy, so he slept as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The next morning's interrogation was not as emotionally draining, but it contained the possibility of more serious charges. The Tarasov brothers had been captured by the team in the sewers, and they had apparently decided that their resident forger was the perfect scapegoat for the art crimes. These were serious allegations. Hughes might not believe them, but they had to be investigated. However, in the end, Neal's injuries, coupled with his deliberate sabotage of the paintings, were enough to exculpate him.

By the late afternoon, Hughes declared himself completely satisfied. He announced that his report would read that Neal had acted with uncommon bravery and intelligence in protecting the life of his partner and helping to bring a gang of criminals to justice. He insisted that Neal take the rest of the week off and offered departmental counseling if it would help him cope with his ordeal. Neal thanked him politely and refrained from airing his opinion that hell would freeze over before he availed himself of those services.

As he left the FBI building, he called Mozzie to update him on Peter's condition. "Oh thank St. Nicholas and St. Michael," the older man exclaimed fervently.

"The patron saint of thieves and the patron saint of policemen. Mozzie, is there something you want to share?"

"No, nothing at all, I don't know what you're talking about. I have to go." Mozzie's voice was higher than usual, a sure tell that he was lying, but he disconnected before Neal could pursue his line of inquiry, leaving the CI staring at his phone in uncertainty in lieu of staring at Mozzie's face. A dark suspicion was forming in the back of his mind, but he put it aside in favor of calling Elizabeth, in the hopes it would be a good time to visit his partner.

She informed him that Peter was sleeping, exhausted after his relocation from the hospital, but suggested he come round the next day. She had spent the last two days at the hospital, resulting in the neglect of her business, and she would appreciate the opportunity to check up on her employees. Neal was only too happy to spend time with his partner, or 'partnersit' as he suggested to El, a phrase he devoutly hoped hadn't made its way to Peter.

That was what brought him to their house the next morning. He was greeted warmly by Elizabeth, who was already smartly dressed with her bag slung over her shoulder. "Bye, Hon," she shouted. "Behave with Neal."

She hauled the young man to one side. "Don't let him get excited or do anything active. There's a list of his drug schedule in the kitchen. There's still a very real possibility of pneumonia, and the doctors are insistent that he must take care of himself or the consequences could be… really bad."

Peter was lying propped up by pillows on the sofa. His normally tanned face was gray and drawn with shadowy bruises of fatigue marring the thin skin under his eyes, but those eyes were bright. He greeted Neal warmly and waved him into the seat that had clearly just been vacated by Elizabeth.

"It's good to see you, Neal."

"I would have been to see you in the hospital, but…"

Peter waved off his apology. "I know you had the inquiry. Hughes called to say that it had gone well. He said you conducted yourself with propriety and courage, and he was impressed. You did good."

Neal tried to keep his smile smug, but, without his permission, it morphed through pride and ending up at bashful. For so many years, the opinions of others had been unimportant beyond their acceptance of the superficial impression he was trying to convey. But praise from this man meant something. Afraid he might burst out with an, 'Aw, shucks,' he excused himself to make coffee for them both.

"Are you sure this isn't on the prohibited list," he asked, returning with two steaming mugs. He placed them temporarily on the coffee table as he helped Peter to a more stable and upright position.

"Neal Caffrey afraid to break a few rules?" Peter teased.

"I've been rehabilitated," Neal solemnly asserted, hand to his heart. Every line of his body projected profound innocence, which would have made Peter suspicious under any circumstances.

"Well, you can assuage your conscience. It's on the permissible list – in moderation...in the mornings at least."

Neal eyed his friend surreptitiously as he sipped his coffee, noting the indications that breathing was still causing Peter pain. He also noticed that the agent was regarding _him_ intently, with no attempt at concealment, a small crease of worry between his brows. Their eyes caught, and this time Peter broke the silence. "So," he said awkwardly, but with endearing sincerity. "How are you doing?"

"Me? How am I doing? I'm not the one who…" Neal reined in his frustration and stated with studied patience, "I am fine."

Peter still looked skeptical. "You'd say exactly the same thing if you were bleeding from multiple stab wounds and your intestines were hanging out."

"Thanks for the imagery."

Peter's mouth quirked a bit, but he continued doggedly. "You were put in a position you should never have been in. Sometimes, I forget you're not…"

Neal perked up. "An agent?"

Peter shot him a quelling glance. "No…well, yes. Look, you're my partner and part of my team, and somehow the line between agent and CI gets blurred."

"I'm not complaining."

"Mozzie reminded me, quite astringently, that you didn't sign up for this. Neither are you trained for it."

"How did Mozzie come into this?"

Exasperated by the change of subject, Peter slammed down his mug, ignoring the liquid that spilled over onto the coffee table. "Are you listening to me? You expressed reservations about this job, and I overrode them."

"No, you didn't. I volunteered. Peter, I'm fine and if I wasn't, Hughes has already offered counseling through the department."

"Which you will take when hell freezes over."

Neal smiled at that identical reflection of his own thoughts. His partner did know him well.

Peter continued, painfully earnest. "Look, I'm just saying that I know something about being held against your will, and if you ever wanted to talk to someone who has some idea of what you've been through, my door's always open."

Neal was more than touched. Despite Elizabeth's softening influence, Peter wasn't a man who talked easily about feelings. The fact that he was offering to do so spoke volumes on the depth of his concern. The CI wanted to dispel his worry.

"If I feel the need to talk to someone, I promise I'll come and talk to you, but really nothing much happened. They roughed me up a bit at the beginning, but mostly they left me alone to get on with the artwork. It was nothing I couldn't handle. It's not my first ride on this rodeo, you know."

Peter wished with a useless ferocity that he'd been there at that pivotal moment when unknown forces had sent Neal's life out of control and pushed him onto the slippery slope to criminal activity. He wanted to protect that young man, guide him back to a safer path and allow his brilliant and overactive mind to find a constructive career. He said nothing though, content to listen as Neal started to open up about his experience, judging only whether Neal was trying to make it more palatable for an audience.

Neal was surprised by how much he ended up talking. His exploits usually required discretion, but Peter was an excellent audience. He didn't say much, but his focus was total.

At the end, Neal shrugged deprecatingly. "So, you see, it wasn't that bad. The worse thing was, well, thinking you were dead. I've got used to the idea of you riding in on your white steed to rescue me."

Now, it was Peter's turn to look pleased and slightly abashed. "I wouldn't need to strap on my spurs quite as often if you didn't positively pole-vault into trouble with both feet."

This was so typically Peter, berating him on the one hand while expressing concern on the other. It was familiar enough for Neal to protest, knowing the argument that he was launching. "Oh, don't tell me that you want to go toe-to-toe with me on who is most out of touch with that trivial Maslow need for self-preservation."

Peter straightened slightly, tacitly accepting the challenge. "I told you not to come back, and apparently Hughes ordered you to stay where you were, yet you returned from a safe position to get captured by a gang of murderous thieves."

Neal was briefly tempted to justify his actions, but he knew Peter already understood why he'd returned and would have done the same thing himself if their positions had been reversed. So he counterattacked. "Says the man who decided it was a good idea to lock himself in a freezing container and choose between dying of hypothermia or bloodloss." It came out sharper than he'd intended. Jones had filled him in on just how close Neal's nightmare had come to reality.

Peter narrowed his eyes in recognition of the fact that what had started as a friendly competition had quickly degenerated into something grittier that affected them both deeply. "Instead of getting the hell out of there as soon as you could, you stayed with the gang that had every intention of disposing of you as soon as your usefulness was over."

"Instead of staying in hospital and obeying doctor's orders to rest, you went on an unauthorized rescue mission, scaring Elizabeth half to death."

It was dirty pool bringing El into it. Peter's lips pursed and his face squared off, eyebrows lowered in a glare. "You walked out into the middle of the yard, with three sets of hostile weapons pointed at you, as if you were going for a stroll on the beach."

Neal huffed at the injustice of that accusation. "If I hadn't, they would have shot me anyway. I had no choice. You, however, _volunteered_ to saunter in front of the gang that wanted you dead. Not only that, but you pretended to shoot me, leaving yourself open to retaliation and…"

Peter's mouth was pursed as if he'd just lost a profound argument with a lemon, and he interrupted before Neal could proceed. "If you hadn't…" An incautiously drawn breath interrupted his tirade, catching in his throat and starting a paroxysm of clearly agonizing coughing. He drew his knees up to his chest in an attempt to ease the strain on his lungs.

"Peter!" Neal slipped out of his chair and stood helplessly, unsure what he could do to help. In the end, he settled for slipping his arm around his friend's shoulders and holding tight. It felt as if he were holding his friend together as he was trying to fly apart, but maybe he was merely offering the comfort of his presence. His grip changed to smoothing circles as the spasm started to ease off.

When at last Peter uncurled, lying back against the pillows, his face gray with exhaustion, Neal gave him a final pat and, without speaking, went into the kitchen. He poured a glass of filtered water from the tap, so it wasn't too cold, then, after checking the instructions El had left, he shook out a couple of pills into his hand.

Peter accepted both with a hoarse murmur of thanks and swallowed down the pills without complaint. Neal tried to keep the concern off his face. "Why don't I go and make some lunch," he suggested. He wanted to give Peter a chance to rest and the medicine a chance to kick in. He could see the refusal starting to form on his friend's face, his appetite probably depressed by both pain and medication, so Neal pushed on. "Something light and simple. How about an omelet?"

There was a moment's hesitation as Peter tested that idea against his taste buds, and that pause was enough for Neal to step in and override any objections. "All right then."

He had cooked before in the Burke's kitchen and knew where everything was, but he took his time, partly to give Peter time to recover, but also for himself. Seeing Peter doubled up in pain was too reminiscent of the ambulance ride they had shared after the shoot-out.

Neal had been supporting Peter when he collapsed, but had lost his grip when the larger man's full weight had suddenly pulled against him. Fast reflexes allowed him to cushion his partner's fall, and the snow provided a relatively soft landing.

As he'd sat supporting Peter on the cold ground, his friend's whole body convulsed in a coughing fit. A bright splatter of colour caught Neal's eye, vivid red against the white of the snow, and he realized with horror that Peter was coughing up blood. Hughes must have had the presence of mind to call the paramedics, because it seemed like they were there within seconds. Citing his own injuries, Neal managed to share his partner's ambulance, which offered him the dubious benefit of making him a private audience to Peter's intubation.

After x-rays, cat scans and blood work, the diagnosis was not as dire as had been feared. The main culprit was a pulmonary contusion, or in layman's terms, a bruised lung, with the complication of three cracked ribs and other bruising. Once Peter's breathing had been stabilized, his condition wasn't dangerous, but the recovery process would be long and painful.

Peter had regained some colour in his face when Neal returned with his fluffy, savory offering. "That smells good." Peace offering accepted.

Peter ate slowly but with enjoyment. "This is really good, Neal. Being a chef is another career you could fall back on."

"I like good food, and deviled ham, by the way, does not fall into that category. Sometimes the only way to get it is to make it yourself."

"Like the times when the Bordeaux bottle was filled with five-dollar plonk?" Peter was interested, not making fun. "You remember the time with fondness," he deduced from Neal's nostalgic expression. He was tempted to point out that adversity had fostered a useful skill, but he wasn't in a preaching mood. Besides, Neal was smart; he could make the connection himself. From the rueful smirk on the CI's face, he was also smart enough to read Peter's mind.

"Getting shot mellows you," he said approvingly, then sobered immediately. "I didn't mean that."

Peter shook his head, taking the comment in the spirit it was meant. Neal returned the plates to the kitchen, bypassing washing up in favor of the dishwasher.

Peter watched him intently as he reentered the room, recognizing the signs of a preoccupied Caffrey. "You want to talk about it?" he offered as Neal sat down again.

Neal rolled a shoulder in an indifferent shrug. He knew how adept Peter was at reading him, so idly flicked through the newspaper rather than meeting his friend's eyes. "It's nothing, really. I was just wondering if they knew who shot you?"

"Don't you?" Peter's tone was light with a touch of amusement, but also curiosity and perhaps caution.

Avoidance wasn't working, so Neal met his friend's gaze, hoping Peter's mind reading skills weren't working at full throttle. "It's just that the shot didn't seem to come from the warehouse. I was curious."

Although there was still laughter in his eyes, Peter leaned forward intently, leveling his most penetrating gaze.

"Oh, take a day off, Peter." Neal grunted irritably, but it was too late. The agent wasn't to be deflected.

"You think…" his finger waved lazily at Neal. "…that Mozzie shot me."

Neal forced a skeptical smile. "Mozzie's not the violent type. Why would I think that?"

"Yes, why would you think that?" Neal was reminded just how relentless Peter could be in pursuit of the truth. The conman's loyalties were completely torn, so he resorted to troubled silence. Peter deserved an answer, but he had to talk to Mozzie first.

Peter kindly put him out of his misery. "You have my word that Mozzie is not on the hook for this."

Neal almost collapsed with the release of that strain. "Oh, thank goodness. It's not that I really thought he would, but it was something he said. He seemed…"

"Uncharacteristically concerned for my welfare," Peter supplied dryly.

"Something like that," Neal admitted.

"You really think that he's capable of murder?"

"Under normal circumstances, no. However, if he saw you shoot me and thought it was for real, he might have reacted without thinking. I discovered for myself that people can do very uncharacteristic things when people they care about are killed or hurt."

It was clear he was referring to his near-shooting of Fowler, and Peter could only sympathize. After all, it was a chain reaction. It was the original murder of Fowler's wife that had set the OPR agent on a dark path, and God knows what Peter would do if anything happened to Elizabeth.

Peter took a deep breath, which stabbed his chest and started him coughing once more. Neal was by his side again. "Maybe talking isn't the best plan. Is there a game on?"

Hating the weakness he was feeling, Peter shook his head, determined not to avoid the conversation any more. "Neal, there is something I need to tell you. I thought you already knew. Just hear me out before you react."

Neal retreated to his seat. "Those words never preface anything good," he stated wryly.

Peter pursued his mouth in rueful agreement. "Okay, well, Mozzie did shoot me."

"What? You said…"

"Not like that. I told him to."

"You told Mozzie to shoot you?" Each word was spaced to make it an individual statement.

"Neal," Peter growled, the name clearly meaning 'shut the hell up.' "The shot couldn't come from the FBI line. It would have been too obvious, and Mozzie was the only person I knew in position. He assured me he was a crack shot and I believed him. I've seen your marksmanship, and Mozzie seems to have similar skill sets to you. Also, I was wearing a vest. Look, this was the only thing that would work. If SWAT launched an attack, you were the first person going down. I wasn't about to let that happen. If we held off and gave them a chance to escape, then as soon as they had no further need for you, they'd shoot you. Either way, you'd be dead."

"So that's the best plan you could come up with?"

"I was thinking that the best way to protect you in your negotiations was to insult you, so maybe the best way to save your life was to kill you. You have to admit there's a certain poetry to it."

Neal maintained a stony silence, but the grim glare he was directing at Peter promised choice words to come. Peter wearily waved a hand as permission to speak.

"I'm with you so far. Great plan, creative and outside the box. However, you fired a blank at me, why couldn't you ask Mozzie to fire a blank at you?"

"Oh, come on, we couldn't both…" Peter mimicked clasping his hand to his chest, with a loud, 'ow' and slumping in death.

"My death scene was totally superior to that," Neal pointed out. "It was utterly convincing."

"Well, maybe I'm not such a good actor," Peter pointed out with asperity. "And you can't fake the propulsion you get when a bullet hits a jacket."

Anger and frustration were not emotions Neal dealt with often, and he didn't deal with them well. He wanted to tear out of the house and relieve his feelings, but he couldn't bring himself to leave Peter, so he took a short, unsatisfying turn around the room before rounding on his friend. "How could you do something so stupid?"

Despite the emotional intensity of the moment, Peter almost laughed at the reversal of the situation. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd dressed Neal down for reckless behavior as he sat on that very sofa. However, Neal was too angry or upset to share the humor of the situation, so he kept a straight face. "I was wearing a bullet-proof vest," he repeated meekly.

"And a bang-up job it did. You nearly died, Peter! You just collapsed, and I was holding you, and you started coughing up blood. They had to intubate you!"

Peter felt no urge to laugh now. He understood completely. He'd felt the same fear when Neal had disappeared and when he'd walked out in front of scores of hostile guns. He wouldn't apologise because he'd do the same thing again if it were necessary to save his partner's life, but maybe a bit more explanation was in order.

"I miscalculated. I didn't factor in the damage already done to my back by the fall down the stairs." Clearly that explanation fell on unmollified ears.

"You know, Peter, you've always been a 'do as I do, not as I say' kind of guy, a man who sets an example many people, including me, are proud to try and follow."

Peter huffed out a silent sigh, anticipating Neal's next argument, realizing that if he'd led anywhere, it was onto thin ice. He made no attempt to stem the force that was Neal in full indignation.

"So what I'm supposed to learn from this is that it's okay to take potentially fatal gambles, if there's a good reason."

This time Peter's sigh was more audible, and he managed to suppress the cough that tried to escape with it. "Neal, it's different," he tried to explain, already knowing the futility of his words. "I'm an agent, and I'm trained and paid to take these risks. It wasn't a gamble; it was a calculated plan made with the full back up of my team and SWAT and," he added triumphantly, suddenly remembering the kicker, "made with the full approval and consent of my superior."

"Hughes approved Mozzie shooting you in the back?" Skepticism dripped thickly off every word.

Damn it. "Okay, I told him I had a sharpshooter ready. I may not have mentioned it was Mozzie, but the theory stands."

"You mean you evaded, obfuscated, equivocated..."

"Can the dictionary, Neal." Peter was aware that his argument had run out of steam. These were just its last feeble kicks before it stopped fighting and gave up the ghost. "It's different." He could feel the truth of that in his bones even if he couldn't find the words to justify it. "You're my responsibility, legally and morally."

"If you've taught me anything, it's that partners take care of each other," Neal said implacably.

Checkmate. Peter was left with no defence, so he fell back on humor. "Do you have any idea of the paperwork I'd have to fill out if you got yourself killed?"

"And if you died, they'd put me back in jail, so I guess we've both got a vested interest in keeping each other alive."

Neal was 2 and 0. "So, now I'm just a meal ticket?" Peter knew that wasn't true, but couldn't help a modicum of hurt from seeping through.

Neal softened immediately. "That's not the case. It never was, not even in the beginning."

Another coughing fit interrupted Peter's response. As he sank back, he caught Neal's eye, and they exchanged a smile, an acknowledgment of another turbulent exchange in an eventful relationship.

"You're right," Peter admitted quietly. "On a scale of 1 to stupid, that ranks beyond idiotic, and if you'd pulled something like that, I'd be reaming you out."

Neal had the grace not to look smug. "And if the situation were reversed, I'd be pointing out that through a stroke of unorthodox genius, lives had been saved." Understanding and forgiveness mutually extended.

Peter suppressed a cough, swallowing a gulp of water to chase the urge back down. He pensively watched a drop of water wind its way down the glass before transferring his gaze back to his friend. "This may seem hypocritical, but as your partner and your friend, I'm going to ask you not to take any unnecessary risks, especially not for my sake. I…don't want anything to happen to you."

He half expected Neal to start another argument, but instead his friend shot him a happy grin and all-too-agreeably said, "Okay."

Peter frowned in suspicion at Neal's carefully innocent expression. "That was just too easy. No arguments, no provisions, no caveats? Just okay?"

"That's right."

"So, you're agreeing with me because I'm right?"

"No, I'm agreeing with you because I'm terrified of what Elizabeth will do if I allow you to get agitated again."

"Now, you're telling me that the thought of my wife angry with you scares you into submission, but courting my ire leaves you unmoved."

Neal shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, but you do realize that, at the moment, you're about as threatening as a Care Bear."

"Well, my dignity just packed its bags and headed for the hills."

Neal mimed contrition at Peter's mock glare.

There was a definition correlation in direct proportion between the amount Peter was talking and the number of times he coughed, so Neal decided that a little monopolization of the conversation was in order. Peter could converse on a number of eclectic subjects, but there was one that Neal knew would keep him quiet and attentive for long periods of time.

Peter might be the world's expert on Neal Caffrey, but he was missing A through G in his encyclopedia set, and he loved to fill those gaps. Neal wasn't sure if it was an agent's desire for complete information, a detective's need to solve a mystery, or merely a friend's wish to know as much as possible about another friend. Probably it was a complex amalgam of all three. Either way, for once, Neal was happy to pander to that curiosity.

Not wanting to create a conflict of interest, he kept his stories focused on his less-illegal activities, or at least on areas where Peter held no jurisdiction. Lips quirked in a faint smile, Peter listened intently, and whether it was the disuse of his vocal chords or merely the distraction, his coughing eased. It was a surprisingly pleasant way of passing the time. Neal enjoyed the reminiscing and the attentive audience, but even a born raconteur grows hoarse after a time, and eventually he subsided in favor of a baseball game on the TV.

This wasn't usually his entertainment of choice, but it was enjoyable watching with Peter who was well-informed not only about the players and their idiosyncrasies of style, but also about the strategy and skills of the sport. They played their own game of anticipating the signals of the catcher for the next pitch. However, Neal wasn't surprised when Peter grew quieter as the game proceeded and eventually fell asleep. Such rest was crucial to his friend's recovery.

It was a restless sleep, but Neal was happy to see the pain lines smooth under its influence. He quietly rose from his chair and padded over to the sideboard where Peter allowed him to keep a sketchpad. He was seized by an urge to capture the moment. The movement of pencil on paper was almost meditative; the soft sweeping of lead soothing his jumbled emotions. When he finished, he looked down on his creation with a critical eye and then across at the vignette of Peter he'd been trying to capture, and frowned slightly.

Carefully, he tore the sheet out and laid it aside. Biting his lip gently between his teeth, he started another sketch. There was a scene indelibly etched in his mind's eye that he wanted to commit to paper – the moment when he realized that Peter was alive as he limped toward him, appallingly vulnerable, yet absolutely indefatigable – an oxymoron on crutches. This time, his pencil moved furiously, almost without thought, as if the memory were downloading itself wholesale. Violent memories softened with the melodic scratching of the instrument.

Peter was still asleep when he finished, for which Neal was profoundly grateful. In fact, as he spread the two drawings out side by side to peruse them, he was fairly sure he'd never show them to anyone else. They were just too personal. He was certain that Mozzie would mercilessly mock him for the rest of his life if the little man caught sight of them. Everything he felt for Peter was laid bare for even the uninitiated in art to see, and it bore no resemblance to Mozzie's 'pure evil, born of a blackened soul."

It clarified Neal's own feelings. He thought he'd lost this sense of family, of belonging, of purpose, but when he'd seen Peter, it had been like being offered a second chance – or a third, he'd lost count at this point. He had no intention of squandering that.

He'd have to find a way in the next few days to break it to Mozzie that he wasn't leaving. New York was his home, and not even the most beautiful tropical island could approach it in its flawed perfection. The treasure might prove an obstacle, but he'd have to convince Mozzie that they should donate it to a museum. He'd like the chance to research the provenances and return what he could to the former owners, but it was too likely to leave a trail that would lead to him.

In retrospect, he'd made this decision a long while ago and only now was admitting it to himself. All this time, he'd been trying to have his cake and eat it, and that had just made him sick and threatened to poison his relationships with all the people who meant the most to him.

Neal placed both pictures carefully in the folder section at the back of his pad, with a mental note to hide them somewhere safe, then he curled more comfortably in the chair and allowed the ideas of home and permanency to percolate deeper inside.

This was home, and no one was going to force him to leave.


End file.
